


Death of me

by NightWithoutStars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Depression, Do-Over, Drugs, M/M, Madame Pomfrey is adorable, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Slow recovery, Suicide, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, getting better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26085115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightWithoutStars/pseuds/NightWithoutStars
Summary: "Make no mistake", hot breath against his ear, a whisper resembling a scream in the eerie silence of the mountains, "your pain, your blood, your life are mine. I will be the one to make you beg for death, just as I will be the one to end your pathetic existence. What pleasure will await me, as I watch your worthless lungs draw their final breath, your weak heart struggle to keep you alive, as you succumb to pain and nothingness. Your end is near, Harry."A not so typical Do-Over Fic.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald (mentioned), Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 94
Kudos: 371





	1. Welcome back to Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Śmierć mnie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315250) by [Zikonest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zikonest/pseuds/Zikonest)



> Hi,
> 
> I was inspired by the One Woman show Collapsible (you can find the script on Amazon), which is a touching story, that made me cry multiple times.
> 
> Also: "this is what speech is supposed to be written like," my beta told me.  
> But I'm german so the grammar is a bit different in this chapter. I'll try to make it better in the next!!

**[BULLET](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lP077RitNAc) and [NIGHTMARE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_2n7zU5K4w) by Hollywood Undead**

**Beta:[PapaElijah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapaElijah/pseuds/PapaElijah)**

The cold was seeping into him, ferociously biting his skin. There was snow beneath his motionless body, forming a soft, lethal pillow for his heavy head. It felt peaceful, despite the frigid air. Was he dead yet? He wondered if he had finally accomplished the impossible task to join his loved ones in eternity. 

Harry Potter had chosen the misty, snow-coated Alps as the place of his last moments. The longing to enjoy the view one last time had outweighed any doubts concerning the location. Here, none would find him until it was too late. They would not be able to heal the cuts on his wrist, or extract the poison from his blood. His head was clouded, thoughts muddled by the drugs that had become his refuge in the past year. It was impossible to open his eyes to judge the world around him. 

Ron and Hermione would have found the letters by now, would be in a frantic search of London. After the empty flat, they would take apart the empty manor that was Grimmauld Place - the abandoned ruin of devastatingly beautiful memories. He could already imagine the headlines: _'Boy who lives no more - Harry Potter succeeds in third suicide attempt'_. Perhaps this choice was for the best after all. His friends, those who cared for him, would no longer be called into St. Mungos to sign him out after an episode. There would be a funeral and the last living Potter would die for the world, as he had been destined to do almost five years prior. 

Harry's felt light, as though his limbs were no longer attached to his body. _Not much longer_.

_"Harry Potter."_

Were those the voices of his parents, calling him to join them in Nirvana? Was it Sirius, grinning at him from beyond the Veil? The young man would no longer be alone, no longer trapped in a dark world meant only for him. Fear would no longer threaten to consume his very essence, nor would it leave him a shaking, drugged mess. His family was waiting for him, the very thing he wished for since glancing into an enchanted mirror. Parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, ancestors, friends. All of them would be there, welcoming him with open arms. In the everyone would die - why not speed up the process?

 _"HARRY!"_ A scream - too loud, too shrill - pierced through the inertia of his mind, cut through the peace he made with the world.

Something was inherently wrong, his stomach twisting in endless knots. The voice was familiar, in a strange, terrifying way. Yet, his eyes were too heavy to open, sealed shut by exhaustion, drugs, and blood loss. Did he care who disturbed his death?

_"Please, please wake up!"_

The man did not want to rejoin the monstrous, brutal thing named reality. He wished to stay in the peaceful snow forever, sorrow and terror locked away. Alas, the world was a cruel place, stealing dreams, leaving behind nothing but nightmares. 

*

_"I feel like a myriad of stones are filling my body, weighing down on me, tying me to the ground. Without them, I could fly away, could run, could laugh, could cry", Harry told his therapist, after the first time, "Breathing is difficult, my lungs are flooded with black pebbles. Similar to water."_

_"Where do these stones come from?" the woman asked, adjusting her spectacles on her nose._

_The young man merely shrugged, hands twitching: "Don't know. It started at Hogwarts, at some point, stones replacing the flesh in my legs. I think after-"_

_Nothing but the ticking of the clock sounded through the office, as Harry's voice trailed off. Tick, tick, tick. Time running out, rushing past him, unnoticed, unused. He felt old, though he was merely nineteen, felt as though his bones would crumble inside him. Had he forgotten how to live, or had he never done so in the first place?_

_"Harry", the woman's soft voice seemed to echo in the silence, interrupting thoughts of death and darkness._

_"After Sirius", Potter continued, though his words were slow, heavy, "the first stones were in my body. I couldn't get out of bed, on the bad days, my legs wouldn't work. That summer- everyone told me to get over it, to move on, because it was what he would have wanted for me. Yet, I could not help but wonder, how they could so boldly declare his wishes for my future. Would he have rather I suffered in a dark word, or would he have wanted for me to join him, for us to be a family, as we were meant to be from the start? I couldn't- I could not simply continue after- After."  
_

_"Yet you fought the war that adults were incapable of ending", a subtle plea for him to elaborate._

_"Ron and Hermione were there. It helped, having them beside me, when the world was crumbling down", a smile, fond, yet terrified of the memories they shared._

_"Do they help you now?"_

_"Sometimes", he admitted the truth that slaughtered his mind, "They love me, but they want to start a family. Everyone does. All of them - Hermione, Ron, Luna, Neville, Ginny, even Malfoy - are moving on, getting married, having children. I feel like an intruder whenever I meet with them, as though I am stealing their precious time."_

_The therapist dipped her quill in ink, her eyes fixated on his hunched figure. "Have you ever given thought to the idea that they consider_ you _to be their family?", she asked with that damned smile that reminded him of Dumbledore._

_"Yes", he concedes with a sigh, "but I'm not enough, not forever, anyway. They will want children, will want grandchildren. Between that and their careers, I matter little."_

_"Who do you consider to be your family?"_

_"My family is dead, waiting for me in a place everyone wants to keep me from."_

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Time was running through his finger, though he never truly held it. Harry was alone, was battered, was bruised. Yet, he could not help but wish for time to fly, until he could leave this world with its shadows of war._

*

Consciousness came to him in a slow, gradual trickle. His limbs were in pain, while his chest felt as though it was being crushed beneath an invisible weight. By now, Harry had enough experience to know, that he was alive and waking up from his third suicide attempt. 

Hermione and Ron would be there, beside his bed. There would be disappointment, fear, and relief etched upon their features, when his eyes would finally open. For the next weeks, they would treat him like cracked glass, as though he would shatter at the slightest touch. All sharp objects inside his home would be taken away, his wand confiscated. Hermione would drag him to a new therapist after he refused to return to his last one. Ron would try telling him how loved he was, how the world needed him.

His best friends would force him to stay in this forsaken world, when he wished to leave it so desperately. 

Harry wanted nothing more than to cry, to scream, to feel the dampness of tears on his cheeks, a clear sign that he was _alive and functioning._ Alas, he was too tired, even for this, too numb. _Broken_. 

It took the young man an incredible amount of strength to force open his eyes - a vigour he did not know he possessed. The world around him was blurred and distorted. Colours and shapes transitioned into one another, leaving a warped image to Harry's gaze. He did not even try to search for his glasses, certain that they would have been removed for the time being. From the corner of his vision, he saw a person. Bushy hair identified her as Hermione.

"Harry!", she exclaimed, upon seeing him awake. Her voice was strangely high, held nothing of its usual exhaustion, that shone through, whenever he relapsed.

"'M sorry, Mione", he mumbled. His tongue was too heavy to properly articulate the words, leaving his apology a slurred mess. He did not mean it anyway. 

The boy yearned for the forgetfulness of a vial of Dreamless sleep - his personal refuge from the world.

"I'll get the others!", his friend announced, running out of the room in a frenzy. 

Briefly, Harry wondered who would come this time. He did not have many friends left in the world of the living. Perhaps Andromeda and Teddy would be brought into his prison, a reminder of his duties as a godfather. 

The sound of footsteps echoed through the leaden silence of his thoughts. Yet, his head was too heavy, rendering him unable to turn his head towards the source. Not that it mattered. 

"Harry?", his name, spoken with concern and worry, by a familiar voice - one which he hadn't heard in years. 

His heart seemed to stop, the steady beat coming to a sudden end, as his mind fought to process the implications. 

"Glasses", Harry croaked, because he could not believe his own senses, could not believe the name his shattered brain supplied for the deep voice. His mind had to be playing a trick on him, as there was no logical possibility of _Sirius Black_ standing at his side, glancing down at his immobile, battered form. 

To his surprise, the familiar weight of his spectacles was placed upon his nose, clearing the world in front of his eyes. Alas, it did not bring clarity, as the face of his godfather appeared in front of him, sporting a worried frown.

"We were so worried for you!", the man rambled, oblivious to his plight. 

Perhaps he was dead after all, Harry mused. This could be heaven - him reunited with all his loved ones in a caring and loving home. Could it be-? He held his breath, as he foolishly, _desperately_ , waited for his parents to storm through the door his godfather left open, waited for them to embrace him in a long, warm hug, telling him how they loved him. Moments passed agonizingly slow, his hands twitching nervously beside him. 

His hopes were crushed, when time continued, shattered as though they were ice against a concrete floor. There would be no mother by his side, no father. After all, he was an orphan. Perhaps, his heaven only contained those who knew him, loved him for who he became, not who he was at the age of one. In the end, it would not matter. He had Sirius after all, didn't he?

"Where-?", his throat was too dry, too raw to finish the question.

Yet, Sirius divined it, immediately supplying an answer: "You are still at St. Mungo's. After you fainted about four hours ago, you were given a room and a general examination spell was performed. Don't worry, you are perfectly fine. Healer said it was exhaustion." There was a crooked grin decorating his godfather's face at the statement.

 _Still at St. Mungo's._ The words echoed in Harry's mind, played in a loop over and over, as he tried to understand how he had gotten here. Could this indeed be the afterlife, if his entire body felt as though he had plummeted from his broom and landed upon the Quidditch pitch? Was he alive after all? Had the drugs in his system caused elaborate hallucinations? Or was this all a dream, a reminder of what he once had, before his world was ripped apart? The boy yearned to bury his hands in his hair, to close his eyes and forget the racing thoughts. Unfortunately, he could not find the strength inside himself to move, tied down by stones hiding beneath his skin. 

It was perchance, that Harry's gaze flitted across his wrists, across the smooth, unblemished skin of his forearms. It was void of the pattern he loved, hated, and felt ashamed of. There were no fresh scars, no testament to his suicide attempt.

"How are you feeling?", Hermione inquired carefully, her hand gripping his in what she assumed to be a reassuring grip. 

It felt strange to Harry, void of her usual callouses. The cool weight of her wedding ring against his skin was missing. A simple glance at her face revealed further differences. Her hair was longer, face smoother, lacking the harsh lines brought upon by years of war. The worst were her eyes. They felt foreign, as though they were someone else's staring at him through her face. Someone younger, who had not yet learned the cruelty of life. 

Those were Hermione Granger's features, yet it was a different person hidden behind them.

Polyjuice Potion or Transfiguration, the boy wondered. Was he the victim of a poor joke - an attempt to taunt him with his loved ones? Yet, it did not explain his smooth skin. 

Perhaps, in a different world - a different state of mind, Harry would have gripped his wand and demanded to be released. The child who had fought in a war would not have hesitated to stun the people before him. Alas, he was tired. Exhausted. Heavy. 

His gaze flitted through the room in an attempt to ignore the imposters before him, taking in his scarcely furnished surroundings instead. A small table stood beside his bed, on which flowers gathered, in combination with a small bag of chocolate frogs. Opposite, a framed artwork took up a part of the wall, right beside a second, empty bed. To his left, a door lead to the bathroom. A calendar with flowers hung to his right, depicting tulips for the month of-

His thoughts came to a halt at the date displayed upon the paper.

22nd December 1995.

_1995._

Before he know what came over him, Harry had jumped out of bed, exhaustion was forgotten in favour of his terrifying suspicions. He barged into the adjacent bathroom, locking the door behind him with shaking finger. His legs threatened to give out under him, as the boy faced a mirror above the sink. His heart came to a sudden halt at the image, refusing to pump blood through his veins. His ribcage seemed to close in around his lungs.

The hair was longer than it should be, not yet shorn to a minimum. There was no beard, merely badly shaven stubble. There was a youthfulness in his face he could not remember having, his cheeks still holding a hint of roundness, cheekbones not yet cutting sharp. Over his brow, the damned scar was glaring at him in an angry red shade, an indicator of the parasitic soul shard it held.

Hastily, Harry pulled off his shirt, almost ripping it in the process. His chest was smooth. No scars, no marks, no tattoo. The skin was not yet pale from prolonged isolation, was still holding the bronze glow. 

The realization slammed into him like the Whomping Willow, stealing his breath away. Harry Potter was once again fifteen, once again stuck in a world where everyone hated him. A world, where so many of his loved ones were doomed to die in a war. He wondered, briefly, if this was not Heaven after all. Perhaps, he did not deserve happiness. Perhaps, he was in hell, doomed to relive the worst years of his life over and over. Relive the deaths of Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Snape, Dobby, Dumbledore, Collin, Lavender, and so many others. 

Or had he merely dreamed the possibilities of a future, in which he was alone and responsible for the deaths of all those he loved? Had the life in his mind truly happened?

Was he dead or alive?

Were his latest drugs giving him an illusion?

His hands were trembling, as they clung to the porcelain of the sink. Harry's breath was coming in ragged, quick breaths, as bile rose at the back of his throat. He could not tell what was happening, what sudden turn his life had taken. Mere moments prior, it had all been so easy. He had been prepared to die, as he had so many times already. Yet, here he was now, uncertain of where _here_ even was. The thoughts in his head were racing, hurting, overwhelming.

Slowly, Harry reached into his pocket, searching for the capsules containing _Devil's Rush_. Two years ago, he had taken to carrying some of them with him at all times, in an attempt to numb the jumbled mess that was his mind. The drugs helped. Alas, he was once more reminded of his uncertain fate, as his fingers brushed nothing but the rough fabric of his jeans. 

_Why?_

The thought echoed in his mind over and over, louder than the remaining questions and theories. 

He need to forget, needed the rush of adrenaline and endorphins, which allowed him to clear his mind from the ever-lurking darkness. Rationally, Harry knew that this body was not yet addicted to the high, had not yet known the extends of drugs. His limbs did not shake from withdrawal, nor did cold sweat run down his back. It was his mind that yearned to lose itself. He should not give in, should not sacrifice his health for a temporary, futile little kick. It was exactly what Hermione would say.

Unfortunately, Hermione was not here - not _his_ Hermione, the girl who fought a war at his side, who spend a year on the run with him, who forced him to survive for the past five years. So, Harry ignored the quiet voice at the back of his head, pulling the shirt back over his head. 

Without another thought, the boy ran. Ran past his friend and Sirius, who were too baffled to stop him sprinting out of the room. He dashed past the Order member positioned before his room as a guard, past healers, visitors, patients. Fueled by adrenaline, he made it away from the shouts following him, leaving the damned hospital.

Finding a muggle drug dealer was almost too easy after this.

*

_The stones had reached his chest, crushing his heart in a cold, cruel grip. A glance at the clock revealed the time to be 6:00 am, his cue to get up and prepare for his Auror training. He should swing his legs out of bed, should begin his day. One more night, in which the wizard had not slept._

_His body was too heavy, breathing too hard. Who would even care if did not leave his flat? Would anyone notice his absence? Unlikely. They saw him as the saviour, the Boy-Who-Lived, not as Harry, the broken boy beneath the stairs, who lost part of himself in a holy war._

_The young man's eyes were fixed upon the ceiling above his bed, following a crack in the white paint. He did not know how long he laid there, nor did he care. The covers were too warm, yet he did not lift them off, relishing in the heat. There was a knock at his front door, too loud and persistent to ignore. Harry did not wish to see anyone. Perhaps, a part of him felt shame for his weakness, his inability to even stand up. Something was wrong with him._

_"Harry, mate?", Ron's voice sounded muffled through the door, "I just wanted to know if you were alright? You weren't at the training today."_

_His tongue was too heavy, a single stone resting upon it, preventing it from forming reassuring words that would send his best friend away._

_"Harry?", higher-pitched than previously, "I'm going to come in now?" It sounded more like a question than anything else._

_The door opened and Ron Weasley stood before him, flaming hair framing his face. His eyes seemed to widen when they found Harry unmoving in his bed, room submerged in a strange twilight generated by closed curtains._

_"Bloody hell, what happened?", the ginger exclaimed, nearing Harry's bed with fast strides._

_"Tired", he mumbled, finally finding his voice hidden inside his throat._

_"You had the entire weekend to sleep! We haven't seen you since Friday! Are you alright?", the genuine concern made something in Harry's heart tremble, lightening the crushing weight the stones placed on him._

_He did not answer, did not have to. It was glaringly obvious, that something was wrong with him. Wrong. Wrong._

_"How long have you been lying in bed?", Ron inquired, coming to a halt beside him._

_"Don't know."_

_"Have you eaten?"_

_So many questions. No satisfying answers. Why hadn't he eaten? Had he been unable to find the energy?_

_"Come on", his friend took his silence as a negation, extending his hand to Harry to help him up, "we'll find you something to eat and you'll come to Hermione and me for the night. It'll be just like the old times."_

_The old times in which they ran from a murderer. Starving, exhausted, fighting. Yet, the boy did not object as his friend dragged him from his room, forcing him to live, to survive._

_Something was wrong with him._

_Wrong._

_Wrong._

_Wrong._

*

He was still high, when Snape found him, shivering in the cold, sitting on a frozen park bench. Had he any sense of time, he would know that it had been less than three hours since he had run from St. Mungo's.

"Professor!", he exclaimed, tongue loosened by the shockingly expensive weed, "You're alive!"

"Potter", the man spat his name out like a disease, before gripping his shoulder roughly, his fingers digging into Harry's flesh, "What did you take?"

The boy wanted to giggle at the frown appearing on the Professor's face, which made his eyebrows fuse. Severus Snape looked as misplaced on the frozen grounds of Hyde Park as a penguin playing beach volleyball. A grin made its way upon Harry's face. Had he been asked a question, or was it merely a hallucination?

"Where am I?", the young wizard questioned, gaze flitting past the older, focusing on an oddly shaped cloud in the sky. "Heaven or Hell?"

"I had not realized you were Christian", Snape stated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Religion did not seem to be the type of thing one discussed with their Potions teacher. 

"You're right!", Harry agreed, "This is too strange for either of the options, because I could never belong in Hell or Heaven, when I don't even believe in Jesus - or any deity for the matter! Which poses the question, where _this_ is."

The other rolled his eyes, as he pulled the boy from his space on the bench in an attempt to put an end to the philosophical discussion. Of course, it was futile, as he merely babbled on, stumbling over his feet in the process: "Where did I go, after death?"

"For Merlin's sake, Potter! You are not dead, why bother with such topics? I'm certain you have many more years before your demise, despite present circumstances."

 _Because I have such a good track record with staying alive_ , Harry thought bitterly, hands balling into fists. He was already dead, had felt the life leaving his body in the pulsating rhythm of his blood. Yet, here he stood, breathing, heart beating frantically. 

_After you fainted four hours ago_...

The possibility of his life throughout the past decade having been a horrible, elaborate dream, seemed more probable than any other at present. Yet, there was another one, more absurd, yet oddly plausible. Harry remembered the movie Vernon had watched, what seemed like a lifetime ago. _Groundhog Day_. A man doomed to relive the worst day of his life over and over, until he made a change. Back then, he had enjoyed the movie, had loved the idea of doing whatever he pleased without any consequences, as no one but him would remember the day. Now, however, it seemed like the worst fate imaginable. 

"Where're we going?", he questioned, falling into place beside his Professor, though the man refused to release his shoulder.

"Back to the Headquarters. As you seem disinclined to prolong your stay at St. Mungo's and are physically in perfect shape, you are allowed to return home."

Home. All he ever really wanted was a place to call his own, a family to return to. Grimmauld Place had come close, for a time. When Sirius had lived there, accompanied by Remus, he had felt like his dreams had come true. The world came crashing down around him within the span of a year, shattering hope and love.

Snape dragged the boy into a narrow alley, away from the prying eyes of muggles, in order to apparate.

"Alone in a darkened back alley with my Professor", Harry mumbled, an ill attempt at humour, "what would the Daily Prophet say?"

The older man's eyes narrowed, a vein appearing on his neck, which was a clear sign to run away for everyone within the vicinity: "I very much doubt anyone would enjoy finding themselves in any place with you, Potter. You are, after all, an unmannered brat."

"I'll have you know", he attempted to defend himself, "that I give amazing blow-jobs."

A lie, of course. His sexual encounters could be counted at one hand. Yet, the choked sound escaping his Professor, which was poorly concealed by their apparition, was definitely worth the effort.

*

Harry's mouth felt dry, his head heavy, clear signs of his ending high. After appearing at Grimmauld Place Number 12's doorstep, he had been pushed into the kitchen, which had temporarily been transformed into an interrogation room. A vial containing a pale blue potion had been forced down his throat, clearing the fog within his thoughts, allowing darkness to seep into his mind, heart, and soul. Sitting on one side of the table, the boy found himself across from Sirius, Remus, headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, all of them wearing sombre expressions on their faces.

He could barely tolerate being in the same room as them - not after having watched the deaths of three of them and mourned extensively. They believed to know him, to recognize his behaviour and thought patterns, when in reality, they knew nothing of his fragile state of mind. In this room, before their concern, he felt like an imposter. As though he had taken the place of their loveable, carefree Harry Potter and replaced him with a shrivelled husk of a man - barely functioning. 

The young wizard's hands gripped the edge of the kitchen table in an attempt to conceal the tremor. His gaze was lowered, eyes following the intricate course of a groove in a futile attempt to distract himself from dark thoughts of corpses. A familiar tension made his body shake, as he fought the urge to run once more. 

"How did you get into contact with Marijuana for the first time?", Remus began what would undoubtedly become a miserable conversation. 

It had been Ginny, who introduced him to the intoxicating sensation of the drug - before his discovery of the stronger _Devil's Rush._ She had not known of the lines adorning the skin of his thighs, hadn't known of the willpower it took him to get up every morning. When he tried it, he became light, as though all his problems disappeared, leaving him free to fly away from this world. Addiction had followed too easily after this newfound rescue.

"A friend", was Harry's simple reply, a wry smile playing about his lips. 

"How long have you been using it?", Sirius finally inquired, when it became clear that his godson would not elaborate.

"Few years."

The disappointment in their eyes should pierce a part of his heart, should make him feel _something_. Yet, he felt strangely out of touch with this world - uncertain whether it was real or a complex illusion brought forth by a damaged part of his mind. 

Harry was tired, wishing for nothing more than to lie down in bed and forget.

"Harry, my boy", Dumbledore began to speak, the everpresent twinkle glaringly obvious in his eyes, "Miss Granger showed us some wonderful extendable ears, courtesy of Fred and George Weasley. You may have heard some distressing things, which caused you to react in such a strong manner. You are free to ask any questions weighing on your heart and we will attempt to answer them honestly, should the knowledge not put you at risk."

It was a gracious offer - one the other Harry would have begged for. Yet, what should he ask, if he already knew everything there was to know? The questions, which lay on the tip of his tongue, burning like acid, could not be answered, not even by the knowledgeable headmaster. For who was he to differentiate between Harry's fantasies and reality.

"No, Professor", he answered, voice oddly hollow, "There's nothing."

 _He did not care_. 

They stared at him, eyes widened in disbelief, as they struggled to comprehend his reluctancy to partake in a war they began. _A war he had finished years ago_.

"If there is nothing else, I would like to lie down. I'm exhausted", Harry gave the adults a grin, wide and uncaring, masking the painful emotions and drowning thoughts.

"Of course, Mr Potter", the Transfiguration Professor nodded, though her brows were knitted together.

The boy fled the room, his eyes cast downwards. Past the Weasleys, Hermione, some Order members, until he was in the safety of his _familiar_ room. He had not set foot into this room, since the war had ended. The sight was a painful reminder that the past decade had only taken place for him - an exclusive nightmare.

As he lay in bed, body heavy and mind racing, Harry came to a painful, yet inevitable conclusion. He was trapped inside his own past, with recollections of a future that no one else remembered - that had not yet taken place. It mattered little, whether or not it had been real or not. Harry had to live with the demons either way. 

Perhaps, tomorrow, he would be able to collect himself, to compose a plan of action. Tomorrow, he would have to deal with the memories of his loved one's violent deaths, while seeing their smiling faces. Tomorrow...


	2. Identitiy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - Christmas on the Closed Ward
> 
> Battle against guilt, which is inevitably lost. 
> 
> Warning: Self-harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup :)  
> I don't have anything to do until November (so excited cause I'm starting a new job) so this will probably be updated quite regularly until them :)

[ **SAINT VERONIKA** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7yOLcxzzeE&pbjreload=101)

Nightmares plagued Harry for the three hours he was able to lose himself in sleep's embrace, leaving him sweating and shaking in their wake. His heartbeat fluttered, lungs constricting painfully, as he laid in bed. Most problems over which humans cried were trivial - forgotten when morning came. It was, therefore, a dreadful sensation of awakening and feeling just as horribly run-down as he did the day prior. 

When morning came, the teen was just as exhausted as he always felt, his body weighed down by invisible weights - only perceived by him. He feigned sleep when Ron made the first noises of consciousness. Despite Harry's skewed perception of time, it took the redhead an abnormal amount of time to leave the room. About thirty minutes were filled with his bustling, as he searched for various items within his luggage. 

Upon the merciful sound of a closing door, Harry stared at the ceiling, contemplating the new, yet familiar, world he had been hurled into. There was no denying that he was trapped here, inside his fifteen-year-old body. Using the situation-analysis patterns taught during his incomplete Auror training, the boy sought for a plan of action.

What were his options?

The first option, which came to mind, involved his wand and two methodically cast severing charms. A second attempt to escape a harsh reality. This plan, however, got less appealing, considering his past experiences with death and the ability to mysteriously evade it, no matter the circumstances. What would guarantee, that Harry would not simply reappear in a different reality, more scarring than this one?

Secondly, there was the possibility of simply running away. Leaving the Wizarding World and its wars behind was an oddly appealing thought to Harry, despite his history with the Dursley residence. He certainly possessed enough gold to have a comfortable life until he died a natural death, though he doubted he would last for what he estimated to be 70 years, give or take. Even with Ron and Hermione, he had barely been able to find the will to live. This plan would undoubtedly end in the first one, though it would take longer. Additionally, disappearing would be near impossible, as he was a celebrity in this world. 

The last available option was the one, which seemed the most rational, yet the most painful. The boy could continue living this life, reliving a terrible war, which had taken everything from him. He would be able to change the fate of his loved ones, keep them alive throughout the following years. Alas, he did not know if he would be able to look at them when a mere smile was sufficient to throw him into a spiral of guilt and grief.

Yesterday, when Sirius had smiled at him - the broad, mischievous grin he had known so well - a part of Harry wanted to hurt himself, to punish for the role he played in his godfather's death. Would the man truly smile at him, if he knew that Harry was the one who led a group of inexperienced students into a trap, which got the heir to the House of Black killed? He doubted it. The thought caused Harry to beg for the pain he deserved.

Perhaps this entire dilemma was indeed similar to _Groundhog_ _Day_. Perhaps, Harry had a chance to right his wrongs, shaping the world into a reality he could live in. Yet, he had to pose himself the question, whether he would be able to wage a war against the murk of his thoughts. Would he be able to separate the faces of his loved ones - _alive_ \- from their tragic, untimely deaths? Or would this resolution merely end in his demise, brought upon him by his own hand?

It was in this moment, that Harry took the first step onto the long, desperate road of recovery. A resolution was made with an iron will and determination:

He would do his best to ensure the life of his family, whether this was merely a facette of his imagination, the afterlife, or some magical occurrence. No matter the cost, they would survive this war. If the terrible images in his thoughts were indeed part of the future, he would use his knowledge to protect 

"Still in bed, are we?" A voice originating from the opposing wall startled Harry from half-formed resolutions.

Lifting his heavy head, Harry stared at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black in dismay. 

"Ever heard of privacy?", he grumbled dropping his gaze back towards the ceiling. 

"I must say", the portrait, unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm of his interlocutor, prattled on, "that we expected a somewhat different reaction, based on yesterday's events."

With a bitter smile, the boy remembered the last time he had been in this situation. He had been filled with guilt and anger about something that had not been his fault, nor within his influence - had felt tainted and wrong. His first reflex had been to run, even then. The possibility, that this may be his first instinct in many distressing situations left an acidic taste in his mouth. Harry bit his tongue, relishing in the merciful clarity the sharp burst of pain gave him. 

"What could a teenager, such as yourself, possibly find appealing at the prospect of spending his day in bed, staring into nothing, when his friends are in the vicinity?" The man's poor attempt to extract information from him almost made Harry laugh. Dumbledore had to be concerned about his recent behaviour if he used such off-hand tactics.

"Tell the headmaster, that I'm not going anywhere. I don't plan on running away anytime soon, nor am I plotting an intricate self-destructive mission." Harry hoped to end this conversation with the reassurance. It seemed to be a successful endeavour, as a quiet tutting was the last he heard of the Black ancestor for a long while. 

Downstairs, Harry heard the clamouring of the people he had declared his family. There was the unmistakable sound of someone stumbling over objects, unique to a certain pink-haired Auror. Sirius' barking laughter echoed through glum halls of Grimmauld Place, lighting the manor up in a way Harry had missed. Mrs Weasley's shrieks made their way up into his room, whenever she snapped at her children to refrain from their usual mischief. It sounded like _home_. 

The boy contemplated heaving his leaden body off the sanctuary of his bed and towards the kitchen. He yearned for the carefree interactions he remembered - before the war when his life had been a simple matter of good and evil. 

However, the thought of looking into their faces, seeing their deaths before his eyes, while they smiled at him expectantly, was simply excruciating. Though their lives were touched by war - the cruel reality of Voldemort's previous conquests - they had not been consumed by them in the same way that Harry had. George did not have the haunted look in his eyes, the urge to avoid reflections at any cost. Mrs Weasley had not yet lost a child to the destruction that had been - would be - the Battle of Hogwarts. Sirius was _alive_ , laughing, grinning.

Guilt seemed to consume him, whenever he thought of joining them. How could he, when he had caused such destruction in another world. They would never forgive him, should they know of his wrongdoings. 

Harry's nails dug into his skin, as he bit his tongue until the taste of blood entwined with pain flooded his senses. He deserved punishment, should not be allowed near any of them. The urge to hurt himself was nearly overwhelming. His thoughts drifted to his wand, hidden beneath his pillow. It would be so easy, _so easy_ , to cast several cutting spells, watching the blood seep out. 

_No_ , he reminded himself. He had to be strong now, had to stay in control for them - his family. 

*

_"Harry", his therapist began, her eyes taking in his exposed, shaking forearms, "why are you showing me this now? Some of these scars are old, stemming from a time before our sessions. Others are fresh. You did not bring this issue up for several months. What changed?"_

_He shook his head, hands balling to fists. The urge to hide his shameful weakness beneath layers of clothes was all-encompassing. He fought it nonetheless, leaving the welts on his skin exposed._

_"I-", he began, before breaking off, unable to find the words. After a few moments of inner conflict, he continued: "I want to stop. Hermione said it was wrong, that I should get help. I don't want to disappoint her, not after everything she has done to me. The look in her eyes, whenever she looks at my skin-"_

_The woman gave him a bizarre look, as she stated: "You are not doing this for yourself. You do not understand your friend's reasoning, which poses the question, why you inflict harm onto yourself?"_

_Harry shifted uncomfortably upon the sofa, feet digging into the floor to prevent his legs from rocking up and down. He did not want to admit this truth, the terrible weakness. Others had lost much more to the war than he did. Yet, they were moving on, living their lives._

_He forced himself to mutter the admission: "They celebrate me as a hero when I am the one who is responsible for so many deaths. I sacrificed the lives of innocent, good people in favour of my own goals. At the Battle of Hogwarts- Voldemort offered to spare them, should they give me up. It's my fault, that-" He could not finish the sentence, tears threatening to leak from his eyes. The wound was too fresh, not even a year had passed after the battle._

_"You saved the lives of every muggle-born there is, ended a war that began long before your time. Whatever lives were sacrificed should be remembered and mourned, though you should never forget the ones you preserved", she insisted, her eyes holding an unknown, yet familiar fierceness in them. She reminded him of Hermione at that moment._

_"It should not have been to such a price. I could've found a different way, could have done_ something _", he contradicted her._

_"Do you feel this guilt, whenever you self-harm?", the therapist questioned, eyes drawn towards the scarring._

_Harry answered her with a shaky nod, a shameful admission._

_"If you truly wish to stop, whether it is for your own sake or someone else's, it is vital that you identify possible trigger points. Guilt is one of them. These trigger points will urge you to inflict pain upon yourself. If you can foresee what and when you will feel the need, you may be able to distract yourself. Common techniques include art, working out, breathing exercises, meditation, any method of stress relief. This will help you until we can negate the trigger points within our sessions."_

_Harry's resolution to overcome the guilt and weakness had lasted a total of two, excruciating months. He had not been aware of the world around him, his thoughts focused on every passing second, fighting the urge to hurt. He had launched himself into the Auror training in an attempt to distract himself. Paired with workouts and the fear of sleep, it had not taken long for his exhausted body to crash. Hard. It was the article within the prophet, depicting the aftermath of Voldemort's madness, which sent him tumbling into the abyss._

_The death toll, the destroyed sites and monuments, the witness accounts of prisoners - it had been too much for him. It was then, covering inside the bathtub, that he first contemplated the option of simply leaving this world behind._

_(The water had been tainted pink, red streaking through the murky depths. His hands shook, as they performed imprecise incisions. The boy relished in the pain, unjustly thinking he deserved such a fate.)_

*

Harry needed to do something - anything - to keep him anchored. His resolution wavered, having lasted what appeared to be mere moments. His legs quivered as he stood, barely able to hold him up. He felt like a wreck as he stumbled towards the door, bolting into the hallway and towards the entrance. Running. He needed to go running. Though it was a poor substitute to the glorious feeling of flying through the air on his broom, it was better than the suffocating, tempting confinement of his room. Harry yearned to feel the wind in his face, to feel free of hopelessness.

As he stumbled towards the staircase, a door to his left swung open, revealing Hermione - too young, too light. Seeing her like this felt just as wrong as it did the day before. She was his friend, had been for fifteen years. The brunette knew everything about him, knew of his guilt, his loneliness, his despair. This girl before him, however, had not spent a year of her life on the run with him. She had not been by his side, mourning for all those lost on the battlefield. Her parents remembered her. Sixteen-year-old Hermione Granger was an innocent child.

"Harry!", she exclaimed, "I wanted to talk to you about-"

He did not want to talk to her right now. Not when he was about to lose himself in the abyss. Not when he knew the shadows his presence would cast over her life. Guilt threatened to swallow him whole. Turning on his heel, he fled from his friend, leaving her indignant shouts behind.

Harry's escape route brought him before the portrait of Walburga Black, his loud footsteps waking her from her quiet sleep. Loud, shrieking insults followed him through the front door, echoing in his head over and over. 

He ran.

Though he was unfamiliar with the layout of the streets and inappropriately dressed for weather and occasion, he soldiered on. Soon, his ratty trainers were soaked from the snow, causing a loss of feeling in his toes. The arctic air felt like shards of glass, cutting through Harry's lungs, leaving a painful sensation behind. His fingers had begun to turn blue, veins standing out beneath the pale skin. 

Yet, the boy relished in the burning pain of his muscles, the way they contracted to catapult him forward with every step. He enjoyed the way his blood seemed to pulsate through his body, concurring with every step, every laboured breath. The biting wind swept his hair back, attacking his vulnerable face with vicious determination. Harry Potter loved the misery of this weather, this run. It helped him forget the guilt and loneliness until there was nothing left but his body in the midst of the cold December landscape.

Muggles gave him odd looks, as he crossed their path in his baggy jeans and thin shirt, running as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. They parted for him as the sea did for Moses, as he made his way into busier streets. 

Harry did not know how long he ran for before the urge to scratch his own skin off his body subsided, allowing the tension to seep from his limbs. He came to halt, panting and shaking, his eyes taking in the surrounding buildings. A church was in some distance, standing ethereally between a Subway, Boots and TK Max. The boy did not recognize the area, though it was clear that he was still in London, standing in a busier street than Grimmauld Place. 

Watching people search for last-minute Christmas presents, wrapped in thick, woollen clothes, was oddly appeasing for his mind. It allowed Harry to remain in the moment, reinforcing the peace he achieved through his jog. Here, nothing reminded him of war. They did not notice him, did not perceive him as out of the ordinary, to preoccupied with personal problems. His breath came easier, despite the cold.

The boy stood at the corner of the street for a long time, watching, breathing, persevering until the burning cold dwindled, leaving nothing but numbness in its place. In the end, Harry found the courage within himself to face his nightmares. Hesitantly, he began to retrace his steps in search of the Black townhouse. It took surprisingly long for a shaking, freezing Harry Potter to arrive at the doorstep of Nr. 12.

_I can do this_ , he whispered to himself, as he reached for the handle. 

Before he could even touch the heavy gold, the door was ripped open before him, revealing a furious Molly Weasley, whose blazing eyes made Harry wish to recoil. Having the redhead's anger focused solely upon oneself was an experience he did not even wish upon his enemies. Maybe Voldemort.

"Young man", she began with a scolding, shrill tone, "explain to me, where you have been! The entire Order is out looking for you!"

"I was-", the boy attempted to defend himself, only to be interrupted by the woman grabbing him by the ear, dragging him into the house.

"This was irresponsible of you, Harry! You know exactly what dangers lurk out there, which is why you promised Dumbledore not to run away again! To think about what could have happened to you... Yet, here you are, acting as nothing happened. The audacity!" The woman ranted, as she pushed the young saviour past insulting portraits into the kitchen. "Here, sit next to the hearth, you are freezing."

It was truly remarkable, how Mrs Weatsly possessed the ability to simultaneously berate and coddle him. It did not take long for Harry to find himself pressed into a chair, a steaming mug of tea in his grasp. Warmth returned into his body; his limbs felt as though tiny needles pricked into the skin, his fingers appeared swollen and hot. He was certain to find rosy spots upon his cheeks. 

Unsurprisingly, it did not take long for Order Members to trickle into the kitchen, each of them throwing dirty looks at the boy for forcing them to search the snowy landscape for a runaway teen. Harry kept his eyes trained upon the mug in his hands, unwilling to face those, who would soon die in a war. It was an ugly thing - the cup - gaudy, green and clumsily made, with purple stars as accessories. He had a distinct feeling that Dumbledore would have loved it. Speaking - or rather thinking - of the devil...

It was the old headmaster, who addressed the teen: "Harry, my boy. I was under the impression that we had come to an agreement, concerning your safety."

Despite the reprimand, the twinkle remained in his eyes, though it was no surprise. Even in his last moments- Harry forced himself to break off the train of thought.

_(A green flash, corpse falling too slowly, eyes open wide. It could not be true. The man could not be gone. Endless fall until the ground, where the smattered form of Albus Dumbledore would be found.)_

He swallowed heavily in an attempt to loosen the knot in his stomach. The tea threatened to leave its containment, sloshing generated by trembling fingers. 

"I didn't run away; as promised", Harry argued, aware that he sounded like a petulant child, "I went for a jog - needed to clear my head, get some air."

Doubt flitted in those blue eyes, half-hidden behind the spectacles. _Of course_ , Harry thought bitterly, _If he suspects me being Voldemort's Horcrux, he will doubt my every move._ Yet, Harry could not hold these uncertainties against his Headmaster, not when he would have reacted similarly in such a situation. It did, however, not lessen the hurt he felt from these doubts. Even after all these years, he still yearned for his mentor's approval.

"I merely ask of you, not to do any rash actions again, while you are staying here. For your own safety and everyone else's", Dumbledore criticized in a light tone, "This includes any outings without supervision."

The wariness and mistrust pained him. Fortunately, Harry had perfected his ability to conceal anguish and heartache behind a goofy, mischievous smile. "Of course, Professor", he grinned.

"Very well. Run along now, Harry", the man returned the smile jovially, allowing the teen to leave the room full of living dead. 

The tremor in his hands persisted, as he made his way up the stairs. Gone was the anxious energy, leaving his legs heavy and immobile and turning the trudge towards his room into an eternity. Upon opening the door, Harry found Ron, sitting on his bed, the latest edition of _Which Broomstick?_ in his lap. The redhead glanced up, as he stepped inside.

"How are you feeling, mate?", his friend questioned, pushing the magazine away in favour of a possible conversation.

"Fine", was the monosyllabic answer. Harry plopped down on his own bed, facing the other.

"You should probably speak to Hermione", Ron began, "I think she was pretty upset after you ran away from her. I mean, she did set aside her plans of skiing with her parents because you collapsed."

Surprisingly, his redheaded friend had not changed much over the years. He was still awkward, whenever it came to emotions; he still bore a crooked, goofy grin, despite years of war. It was only occasionally, that Harry had been able to see a shadow upon his features, as fleeting memories came back to haunt him. 

In this aspect, talking to sixteen-year-old Ron Weasley was easier than a teenaged Hermione, as he was not continuously comparing two realities. On the other hand, the former lacked the finesse and understanding, with which the latter navigated conversations. He offered quiet comfort in the form of a listening ear - seldom advise. 

"I will", Harry promised.

Clearly uncomfortable, Ron broached the actual topic: "I - We, that is - were wondering how you are doing with all this... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named business?" He shifted in his seat, crumpling one of his magazine's pages in his fist.

"I'm not possessed", Harry quietly explained, unwilling to reveal the reason for his recent behaviour, and reluctant to lie to his best friend. 

"Of course not!" The redhead hastily tripped over his words, as he attempted to appease the younger teen, "It's just that you ran away twice, and you fainted, and-"

"Ron", he interrupted, "I swear, I'm fine. It was a lot to process if I am being honest. I just needed to clear my head, to come to terms with this- this."

"Yeah, that makes sense", a nod, followed by silence, before, "Bloody hell! It's crazy, isn't it? That they think you are possessed when you _saved Dad's life."_ The older wizard ran his hand down his face in disbelief. 

A real smile slipped onto his face at the gesture, which his mind associated with Ron. It was a peaceful familiarity in a warped world. 

"Listen", Harry began, "I'm quite knackered after the jog today. Can we talk about this tomorrow, with the others?"

"Sure. We probably will have to help with decorating this beacon for Dark Magic for Christmas. Mum is always insistent on traditions."

In the secure warmth of his bed, Harry thought that, perhaps, it not all was bad. He would be able to spend Christmas with Remus, Sirius and the Weasleys once more. Perhaps, with time, Harry would be able to let go of the terrifying images that haunted his mind and heart. Perhaps, all would be well, this time around. 

Alas, as always whenever it came to the Boy-Who-Lived, this would not be the case.

_He knew these rough stone walls lining the deserted corridor, knew the outlines of the sleek, black door as though they were the back of his hand. Visions and Nightmares of this corridor had bled into one another, leaving the images burned into his memory. Harry reached out, driven by a desperate need to_ open _the door before him. Part of him knew what would follow, though he couldn't quite put his finger on the dark foreboding churning in his gut._

_It was the burning sensation in his scar, which tore his mind towards awareness. The images surrounding him seemed to flicker, yearning to warp into a different landscape. This was not a dream, nor was it a nightmare. Lord Voldemort had sent him visions of the Department of Mysteries, which would inevitably lead to the demise of his godfather, brought about by Harry's own stupidity. Sirius was dead and it was all his fault._

_"NO!" His scream echoed off the walls, losing itself in the immensity of the corridor. The boy sank to his knees, Hands clutching his stomach in despair and nausea._

_The image shattered, breaking apart as though it was nothing more than porcelain against a concrete floor. It appeared as though Voldemort had lost control of Harry's mind. The thought was little comfort to him, especially, as it morphed into his own nightmare._

_He was in control of his own body once more, standing at the edge of the Veil inside the ministry. Sirius stood a few feet away from him, a grin etched upon his lips, victorious and confident. The teen saw the spell soaring towards his godfather with terrifying clarity, saw it seeping into his chest, forcing the man back from the momentum._

_A cry fell from his lips, ripping through his throat, searching to express the agony he felt as Sirius fell._

_Fell._

_Fell._

_Fell._

_It was his fault._

It was all his fault.

Harry shot up from his bed, cold sweat running down his back. The thin sleep-shirt stuck to his skin. He was shaking, trembling, his breathing coming in uneven, violent gasps, as he fought for air. His chest seemed to tight, paining his heart and lungs. 

The boy did not know how he made his way into the bathroom, though he was certain to have fallen at least once if the forming bruises on his shin were anything to go by. Awareness found him crouching beside the old-fashioned tub, left arm stretched out over the rim, right hand clutching his wand in a futile attempt to ground himself.

Deep down, he knew that he should not cast the spell, should put his wand aside and return to bed. He _wanted_ to get better, to change the world around him, until the images that haunted him were nothing but nightmares, chased away by chamomille tea.

Alas, he was weak, guilt consuming his every thought.

 _It was all his_ _fault_.

"Diffindo." The word spilt from his lips like water.

Harry relished in the pain that emitted from the cut splitting his skin. He deserved this for his part in Sirius' death. This and so much more. With satisfaction, the teen watched as his blood slowly dripped from his forearm, staining the white porcelain of the pristine tub. Once more, he cast the spell, hissing when it cut deeper than intended. What did it matter? He was to blame. They would never love him, should they know. 

He did not know how many cuts adorned his skin when he returned to a conscious state of mind. Sirius was alive. Harry had a chance to right his wrongs. He needed to be strong now - to survive his guilt in order to save him.

The boy felt heavy, as he forced himself to stand up, standing on wobbly legs. A quick 'Evanesko' followed by 'Episkey' vanished the blood and healed the cuts, leaving behind faint, shimmering lines upon his forearm. Ashamed, Harry pulled his sleeve down, covering his weakness. 

It was only then, that he remembered the Trace upon him, forbidding him the use of magic outside of Hogwarts. He truly was fortunate to be in a wizarding household, though he would have to be more careful in the future. 

Slowly, with unsteady steps, Harry made his way towards the room he shared with Ron. Despite the fact that he would be unable to sleep, Harry laid down upon the covers, allowing his friend's snoring to lull him into a sense of peace.

*

Miles away, within the immaculate, luxurious building that was Malfoy Manor, the Dark Lord returned from his meditations with a confused frown upon his brow.

*

Harry could not get out of bed the following morning. Shame and guilt hung heavily above him, resembling the blade of a guillotine. Sirius' jolly laughter and holiday spirit were excruciating to him, as the nightmare replayed before his eyes over and over. Around lunchtime, Hermione threw the door open with too much vigour. 

"I don't know what's going on, Harry, but there's no reason to be moping around!", she launched into her tirade, "I spoke to Ron and he told me that you don't believe that You-Know-Who is possessing you. So explain to me, why you are still avoiding all of us as if we have the plague!"

Sitting up, he apologized meekly: "I'm sorry, Mione. I just- there are some things I have to deal with. Personal issues. This has nothing to do with Voldemort, or the Order, or Dumbledore. You could call it an identity crisis."

He gave her a soft smile while fiddling with his hands. It wasn't a complete lie, as it contained some truth. Harry had to face his demons, had to improve his mental health. He had taken the first step in acknowledging that he was unwell. Alas, it would take much longer until he was better. 

Hermione's features softened, as she sat down beside him on the mattress. "I understand", she whispered, "Ron and I are here if you need to talk about anything - whatever it may be."

"Thank you", he murmured. There was an itch in his throat and a burning sensation behind his eyes. It was exactly how the brunette had reacted to his confession of nightmares and guilt. She had smiled and told him that he was not alone. Apparently, no matter the time, Hermione Granger would always be able to comfort him.

She dragged him downstair with her, forcing him to partake in the holiday preparations. It was nice, despite the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind. Perhaps his midnight neurasthenia had appeased his urge to self-harm, allowing him to relish in the company of his loved ones. 

The atmosphere was almost peaceful, though breathing exercises were required more than once, whenever his eyes fell upon an undead Order Member. Today, he would fight back the guilt, would suppress it in order to relax for the first time in years. Tomorrow, he would face it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought :)  
> Comments are always appreciated.


	3. I am broken, can't you see?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - Occlumency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's trigger points are mostly guilt and having to interact with people whose death he feels responsible for. 
> 
> Also: I know that Cho asks Harry out in canon, but she doesn't here soooo :)
> 
> Watch the video, it is absolutely fucking amazing (obviously, it's ffdp).

**[COMING DOWN](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptzzU7jFQwo&list=PLTN6aXFUKjxP11mne4NJ2cUg9a3FV8N1X&index=9) **

_"How are you doing, Harry?", His therapist queried with a pleasant smile upon her lips._

_The teen looked around the room, taking in his surroundings in an attempt to buy time. Nervously, his fingers pulled at his sleeves, willing them to grow longer - to conceal the fresh scars. There was a new photo upon the woman's desk, framed by silver. It depicted her and an unknown man, kissing._

_"Worse", he finally mumbled, searching for the famous Gryffindor courage, "I am thinking about quitting the Auror Training."_

_"I thought you enjoyed it?", she gave him an encouraging nod, taking notes with her quill. It made Harry fell like a test-subject, as though she was attempting to find out what was wrong with him._

_"I can't do it anymore. In every opponent, I see Voldemort, see his crazed smile, the mania. Every spell makes me flinch", he admitted, looking everywhere but the therapist._

_There was a prickling sensation washing over him, causing the hairs at his nape to stand up. Harry's hands clenched, nails digging into his flesh. Something was amiss, out of the ordinary. Yet, he could not figure out what it was._

_"Would you like to show me your arms?", the woman before him suddenly switched topics, her gaze focused upon the long sleeves._

_For the fraction of a second, the landscape seemed to ripple; the image froze, similar to a DVD with a crack in it. The woman's face scrunched up, as though she had bitten into a lemon. She stared at him with something akin to distaste, before the strange moment came to an end._ _As though nothing happened, his therapist faced her notes, quill dipping into ink. Harry, however, could not comprehend what had taken place, eyes burning holes into her, attempting to-_

_"Harry?" There was something oddly wrong with her voice. Too sweet, yet too bitter, demanding information. The teen saught to understand why his gut screamed at him to run fast and far, to leave the imminent danger he was in._ _Was he simply paranoid? It had happened before - an inevitable consequence of spending a year on the run._

_"I can't", he answered the previous question, gaze cast downward. He had given up, too overwhelmed at the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts_ _. "I don't want to do it anymore", he whispered with a shaking voice, feeling ashamed and weak at his admission._

_"There is no need to be ashamed, Harry. Let me see your arms." It was a demand, however sugarcoated it seemed. The usual understanding and kindness had vanished from the woman's voice, leaving an unknown iciness, which made the hairs on Harry's arms rise._

_"No." He shook his head vehemently, curling in on himself in a futile search for protection. Desperately, the boy wished for his wand, which he had been required to leave outside the room, as all patients were. He wanted to cling to the polished wood and relish in the illusion of security it gave him. The floor beneath Harry's shaking legs rippled, the pattern of the expensive carpet shifting - dissolving and reforming at a rapid pace._

_"Show them to me!" Her voice was distorted, as though a different person was speaking underneath._

_Out of reflex and self-preservation, the young man's head shot up, trembling fingers balling into fists, preparing for a fight. His green eyes were too wide, searching the therapists face for the everpresent empathy, but finding nothing but frost. Her features were smooth, the corners of her lips pulled into a sneer, her eyes narrowed. It was when their eyes met, that he understood._

_From the dark skin, the bright red stood out in a horrifying way. Hellfire, staring at him from bottomless pits, threatening to scorch his very soul with burning darkness. The very colour that haunted him since he had been fourteen and first caught a glimpse of a man within a graveyard._

_Lord Voldemort had come back to haunt him._

_(And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.)_

Harry Potter woke up screaming and thrashing. There were hands upon his body, forcing him down. Pure panic was coursing through his veins, causing his heart to flutter within his chest, as though it were attempting to break from its prison of bone and flesh. He struggled, kicking his legs and swinging his fists in an attempt to rid himself of his attacker. The endeavour seemed to be successful, proven by a yelp sounding from somewhere near his left ear. A heavy thud followed, the sound of someone hitting the floor in an uncomfortable manner.

Within seconds, the sable haired wizard had gripped his wand from beneath his pillow, training it at the intruder. His eyes held a crazed look, unable to recognize the teen sitting on the floor, clutching his nose. The 'stupor' easily fell off his lips in a merciless survival attempt, brought about by years of war. Only then did he examine his motionless target.

_Ron._

His body shook like a leaf when adrenaline, terror, and tension left him in a dizzying rush. With a flick of his wand, the spell was lifted, allowing his friend to right himself.

"I'm sorry", Harry mumbled, while burying his head in his hands, uncaring of the sweat upon his brow. He wished to hide, to forget, to cry. 

"Bloody hell, mate", the redhead swore, clutching his swelling nose, "What on earth happened? Did you have another vision?"

"No", he negated, "just a nightmare." 

Because it had to be. He would not be able to share his mind with a murderer once more; would not be able to tolerate the anger and rage the other felt - the bloodlust. It sufficed that there was a shrivelled piece of the man's soul deeply imbedded within his head, tainting him with it's malicious, cruel whispers. 

_Who is to say that you are not a murderer yourself?_ A quiet voice taunted him from the depths of his heart, reminding him off the deaths he had played a part in. Perhaps he deserved it - this immoral connection to the wizard.

"Must have been one heck of a nightmare. You were scratching yourself - looked quite painful, if you ask me." Ron's voice anchored him, guiding him away from the destructive thoughts, as it always had.

The familiar, straight-forward way in which his friend spoke calmed his racing heart and quivering body. It allowed him deep breaths once more by loosening the tightness of his throat. 

In an attempt to distract himself further, Harry gestured towards Ron's injury, offering: "Would you like me to heal that?"

"You know, you really should not use magic outside of school. Not that I would not be thankful, but you already had a hearing at the ministry. If Umbridge somehow finds out, your wand will be snapped quicker than you can say Quidditch", the older wizard scolded, sounding oddly like Hermione. A wry grin escaped him. He could not remember the future couple to be so similar in this time period. 

"This house belongs to the Black family. There is so much magic in this room alone, that the ministry will never find out about my little crimes", he laughed.

"Right then. Do your worst", Ron gestured towards his face, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Episkey", Harry murmured, satisfied when the other's nose returned to normal size. Though he could perform the spell wand- and wordlessly (a necessary requirement for someone with such an amount of self-loathing as him), he deliberately pronounced it in order to reassure Ron and devoid him of any suspicion.

"Blimey", the redhead murmured, hand flying up to his healed nose, "Where'd you learn that?"

"For the tournament last year", he lied with a shrug.

"You have to teach that during the DA!"

"Maybe. If we have time."

"Are- are you alright to sleep or would you like to do something else? We could play chess, or-", Ron trailed off after the suggestion. It warmed his heart, that the older would be willing to sacrifice his beloved sleep in order to soothe Harry after a nightmare.

"I'll be fine", he reassured with a genuine smile, "You can sleep. I'm just going to make myself a cup of tea."

Downstairs, the Christmas decorations were still adorning every available and unavailable space, despite the fact that the holiday had passed. In a way, it had been uneventful, though Harry had pretended to be unwell twice in order to escape his suffocating emotions. He had gone for another run, accompanied by Tonks and Sirius in his animagus form. However, after even that had been forbidden, he had begun to sprint up and down the creaking stairs to distract himself. It worked more or less successfully. 

His mind felt oddly at peace, whenever he found himself in the presence of his closest friends, having come to term with the current situation. Being near his godfather, however, was still incredibly difficult, especially, when that wide, goofy grin took over his features. In those moments, Harry would see the loathed, green flash hitting Sirius square in the chest, forcing him to leave this world because of _him_.

He was aware that there was a rift between them, which had never been there before. One, that Sirius desperately sought to mend, although it had been his godson, who created it. The knowledge added to the crushing guilt. It was a vicious circle, the only escape of which lay in the improvement of the boy's mental health. 

Over a cup of chamomile tea with too much sugar, Harry wondered whether the scene in his dream had indeed been a product of his imagination, or if there had been a foreign presence within it. Had Voldemort found his way into his mind, or was he merely haunted by horrors of the past? Though the Dark Lord had lived on in his memories, even after his demise on the battlefield, none of his night terrors had ever involved such vivid images. 

On the other hand, Harry was a decent Occlumens by now, the task having been a requirement during his Auror Training. While he was certain, that he would never be able to reach a similar proficiency to Snape, he thought himself skilled enough to retain relevant information, should his mind be assaulted under torture. Voldemort should not have been able to enter his mind, at least not considering the information Snape and Dumbledore had given him when he had been fifteen for the first time. 

In the end, Harry Potter decided - hoped, prayed - that it had been a terrible, cruel manifestation of his troubled mental health. He was too tired to worry about those things. Exhausted.

 _How wrong he was_.

***

Harry had almost forgotten, that Snape had visited Grimmauld Place during the holidays, bearing the command of Occlumency lessons. Between Voldemort and Umbridge, the prospect of weekly lessons with the petty Potion's Master had been daunting, to say the least. Looking back, Snape had not been a good teacher, especially if he compared him to Auror Roccus - his mentor during the Training. The lack of trust between Harry and the Potions Master had made the lessons increasingly complicated until they were, quite frankly, unbearable. 

Yet, here the man sat, at the kitchen table of the Black townhouse, wearing a scowl. Opposite, Sirius lounged, glaring at the Professor with the intention of murder written across his face. 

"The headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term", the man drawled in his usual, condescending tone. 

"Alright", he conceded, seeing no use in arguing. He would be able to conceal his memories well enough for Snape to abandon their lessons soon enough.

A single, dark eyebrow was raised at him, a clear testament of his Professor's surprise at Harry possessing any knowledge, which went beyond Quidditch. In another life, he would have been angry, would have been prepared to fight, to rage. Now, however, he knew the man's sacrifices, knew of his past, his present and his future. It was another man who would die because of the Boy-Who-Lived - bound by an unbreakable vow to the boy who resembled his childhood bully in so many ways. 

Harry clenched his jaw at the images threatening to take over his thoughts. Memories of tears and blood, of wooden walls covered in scratch marks, of the gleaming, green coils of a lethal snake. _Breathe._

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Nails were dug into the flesh of his palm, inflicting a weak form of punishment. Teeth biting onto the tongue, until the taste of blood flooded his senses. 

"When is our first lesson?", he queried in an attempt to distract himself. Harry hoped his voice sounded confided and firm, though he was certain that the quiver was clearly audible to the two adults within the kitchen. 

"Monday", a short and simple answer, though the frown deepened. 

" _You're_ teaching him?", his godfather interrupted the exchange in disbelief.

"Indeed, this _great honour_ was bestowed upon me", the words were dripping in sarcasm, his eyes gleaming in delight, as he turned towards Harry, "It will take place under the pretence of additional, one-on-one Potion's lessons. A very believable excuse, which even Umbridge would not question, given your _academic prowess._ "

In a matter of seconds, Sirius was upon his feet, wand drawn. The grey eyes blazing with something akin to fury. Beneath, the madness shone through, a cruel reminder of his time at Azkaban, of the years of captivity. Harry remembered the frustration, which had driven his godfather to react before thinking. Locked away while the war, which had taken his freedom, was brewing on the horizon once more.

"Don't you dare insult Harry under my roof", he hissed through clenched teeth.

"No matter what pathetic little spells you attempt to hex me with, Black, know that in the end, I will be the one with the ability to walk out of this place." Snape stood up as well, though the motion was less forceful.

Harry saw the moment in which Sirius decided to curse the other man with shocking clarity. Faster than he would have thought himself capable, his hand shot forward, fingers curling around the man's thin wrist. The betrayal in the older wizard's eyes, as he glanced at his captive wand hand almost broke his heart.

"Don't", Harry whispered quietly, "I don't mind having Occlumency lessons with him. In fact, it'll be helpful. These dreams - I don't want to have them anymore."

A curt nod followed from his godfather, he stuffed the wand back into his pocket. With one last glare at Snape, Sirius stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. In the entrance hall, Walburga began shouting.

"Have a good weekend", Harry inclined his head towards his Professor, "Sir."

Snape merely nodded, making his way out of the kitchen. In the doorway, he was intercepted by the Weasleys, Arthur standing at the front, looking healthier than he had at Christmas. 

"I'm cured!", he announced jovially, unaware of the conflict which had taken place.

Harry forced a weak smile upon his lips. He was exhausted. 

Later that evening, Sirius gently knocked at Harry and Ron's door, popping his head in. His hair looked dissolved, the sombre expression making him seem years older. 

"Hey, Harry, can I talk to you for a second?", he queried, nervousness showing in his fingers drumming against the wooden doorframe.

"Sure", the younger replied, standing from his bed. After grabbing his newest Weasley jumper, Harry followed his godfather into the dimly lit kitchen. Two cups of hot chocolate stood on the table, kept warm through a stasis charm. Sitting down before one of them, he glanced at the other wizard. 

"I-", Sirius wetted his lips, hands tightening around his mug, "I just wanted to ask if I did something wrong? We haven't spoken much, since you came here..." He trailed off.

"I'm sorry, Siri", Harry sighed, "this has nothing to do with you. I have to figure out some things. About myself, my future, and my life in general."

A relieved grin spread itself across the older man's face, as he answered: "I hope you know, that you can always talk to me. Doesn't matter what it is, I'm here for you."

"Thank you. But this is not an issue I want to talk about. With anyone", he quietly whispered, guilt lying heavily inside his stomach. 

"I understand", Sirius nodded, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, rectangular package, "On a different note, though, I want you to have this. Your dad and I had one each. Helped us quite a lot with pranking."

The fond smile upon his features made him seem younger, soothing the lines Azkaban and time had left upon his skin. As Harry unwrapped the gift, his breath got caught inside his lungs. He had forgotten when Sirius had gifted him the mirror, only remembered the grief that came whenever he gazed upon the remaining shard. After the war, Aberforth had given him the second half, arguing that it never truly belonged to him.

Both pieces were hidden within a locked drawer inside of Harry's apartment, beneath the photo album of his parents and a Hogwarts yearbook. Only thrice had he taken them out - reviewing memories to reinforce his decisions of leaving the world of the living behind.

Yet, here the mirror was - whole and functioning - connected to a copy held by his godfather. Not a blue-eyed stranger, nor a thief, but his living, breathing godfather. Tears welled up in his eyes as he gazed at the object. For the first time since his arrival, he fully grasped the concept, that Sirius Black was _alive_. 

"Thank you so much", Harry whispered, cradling it to his chest.

"No problem. Promise me, that you'll call when you go back to Hogwarts tomorrow."

"I promise." He meant it.

***

School resumed as though nothing had changed. It did not matter that his heart ached and his thoughts were wailing. Trivial things, such as education, carried on, uncaring of turmoil and health. The students surrounding Harry lived their lives, worrying about superficial issues - exams, crushes, friendships - unaware of the horrors lying in their futures. It made carrying on infinitely harder, as he wondered if there was something awfully wrong with him. 

Why could he not laugh with them, could not lock these haunting thoughts inside the darkest place of his mind? Were the hollowness of his mind and the heaviness of his body meant to remain with him for the remainder of his life? Was he cursed to fight the urge to harm himself until the end of times? 

Especially inside of Hogwarts, Harry felt as though he was disappearing beneath the expectations addressed to him. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, was crazy, was a saviour, was a friend, was a teacher, was a student. Every one of them looked at him and saw nothing more than the impression he left in their minds. They did not see the scars, nor the haunted look hiding inside his eyes. 

So he smiled, said he was fine. No one would be able to understand that he was mourning for the memory of people who had not yet perished. Perhaps there was something wrong with him after all. 

The members of the DA asked him the dates of future meetings, for his knowledge in duelling and survival. Once, he would have willingly agreed to teach children the craft of war, would have believed in the right of everyone to save the future of their world. Now, however, he had lived through the gruesome battles. The memory of Collin's motionless body, grey eyes wide and unseeing, would haunt him forever. Another death at his hands. Blood, he would never be able to wash away. Who was he to prepare children for war?

Upon approaching Hermione on his intents to dissolve the DA, she had begun another one of her lectures: "The DA is not about moulding us into soldiers. It is about self-defence. Do you think the Death Eaters will care about my education or my age when they attack me? They won't! My blood-status is all that matters to them! Your lessons give all of us a chance at survival, however slim it may be."

There was a certain truth to her words. It was visible in the survivors of the years of War, visible in the fighters of the Battle of Hogwarts. He had been able to do some good after all, despite the lives he had ended. Though the DA would remain, Harry would have to make certain, that none of them would think of themselves as fighters, no matter their houses or convictions.

It was with those thoughts, that the teen entered the Dungeon for his first Occlumency lesson in a long time.

"Potter", the Potions Master greeted, as the teen knocked at the open door, "come in. Do you have previous knowledge on the subject of Occlumency?"

While following the order, Harry nodded, uncertain whether or not to elaborate.

"Then you will certainly not mind if we begin right away", Snape declared, a malicious glint in the depths of his dark eyes - a representation of his doubt in Harry's abilities.

"Not at all", he simply retorted, setting his bad aside, "Do your worst."

_"Legilimens!"_

_Empty yourself of all emotion._

Snape had once told him those very words in a failed attempt to teach him the art of Occlumency. Unfortunately, Harry had never been particularly skilled at suppressing anything. Throughout the shrivelled excuse that his life so far had been, it had gotten worse. Whether it was love or self-hatred, the saviour of the Wizarding World was consumed with his emotions, losing himself in their depths. Though it had aided him in the defeat of Voldemort, the intensity had been his downfall once the war ended. However, there were other ways of concealing one's thoughts. 

_Agony and guilt - an all-consuming conflict within his head. Blood against white porcelain, dripping into a pool of rose-coloured water, an aesthetically pleasing, yet gruesome image. Grief, forcing tears to tumble into the murky bathwater. The urge to carve it all away, scratch the skin of his body until there was nothing left of his leaden husk._

_Over._

_And Over._

_And Over._

Harry had felt agonies beyond his years, had lost all hope in moments of despair. His dreams had been deemed insane within his own consciousness, accepting himself unworthy of happiness. The teen could not keep his Professor out of his mind, not with the man's incredible skill in both Occlumency and Legilimency. Allowing the inevitable, he drowned the man in his worst memories - the madness lurking within - while distancing himself from the ever-repeating grief, as not to feel it himself. Sufficient to live with it. The method protected his private thoughts well enough.

As expected, the Potions Master withdrew his consciousness from Harry's within a matter of seconds, forced to brace his body against the edge of his desk. Harry did not feel satisfaction as he saw the man's fingers curl around the wooden edge in a search for support, nor when he saw tears glistening in the corners of the dark eyes. Had he truly been fifteen, he would have felt gleeful pride in his Professor's weakness, brought about by a petty hatred for the man. However, it had been his fault that Severus Snape had perished inside a shack, his name that the Unbreakable Vow had been sworn upon. 

Their eyes met for a frightening instant, in which Harry could see the pity and disbelief buried beneath the usual hatred shining from the older wizard's eyes. Understandably, as no fifteen-year-old should have such a turmoil burning beneath their skin. 

"What did you do?", he hissed.

"I-", he broke off, unable to explain the mess that was him. Instead, Harry settled for explaining the theory behind his defence, distancing himself: "In his book, _'Mental State and Magic',_ Jonathan Zimmer describes the defence of the mind by 'capturing' the invader with particularly strong emotions. It is a tactic designed for those incapable of emptying their minds, relying not on keeping others out, but rather on feeding them a moment they will be unable to stand."

"I know the theory behind every possible Occlumency ploy, Potter. What hardships could you, the saviour of the Wizarding World possibly have faced in order to be such emotional wreckage?" There was derision clearly audible, stemming from Snape's memory of James Potter. 

"It's not necessarily about the memory", Harry shrugged evasively, "but rather about how strongly one feels about it."

Doubt was written across the man's face, though in the end, his conviction about the teen's past won out. 

"It seems that there is not much I can teach you in this area", Snape admitted, looking as though he had just eaten one of Dumbledore's lemon drops, "We shall use this time as remedial potions instead. It is certainly necessary, considering your abilities, or rather lack thereof."

Admittedly, Harry was not good at the subject. Although he could follow the instructions of potions well enough to achieve satisfactory results, he lacked the deeper understanding his Professor possessed. It certainly would be beneficial to obtain Snape's rare advice.

"Thank you", he replied, before hastily adding "Sir" after remembering the wizard's need for respect.

Eyebrow raised, the Professor nodded, pointing towards the board, on which the instructions for the Wit-Sharpening Potion began to write themselves. "Begin", was the simple command, upon which Harry began setting up cauldron and ingredients.

Later, after a tedious two hours, he was dismissed, after being coached through the entirety of the Potion. Despite the fact that all advice had been accompanied by words such as 'horrendous', 'dimwitted' or 'inadequate', he felt as though he did improve in his ability concerning the particular brew. The teen did not even care for the insults, as he might have done once, accepting them as justified. 

It wasn't until he was outside the door, that Harry finally allowed himself to release a quiet sob, tears falling slowly, only to be wiped away furiously. Snape had peered into his mind and found no error within it, despite the evidence lying before him, clear as day. He did not see how broken Harry was, that he was hanging by a thread. No one did. Not since Hermione and Ron, in a different time-line - or were they too merely stemming from a fragment of his imagination?

He did not go up to his dorms, even though it was close to curfew, as he felt unable to face anyone else. At the moment, he could not look at these children, with their pointless worries and impossible dreams. They would expect him to join in with their laughter, a thing he could not do at present. Instead, he found himself wandering towards the outside world, intending to do what he always seemed to do this past week. The teen dropped his bag near the doors, breaking into a sprint - once more uncaring of the unsuitable attire. The wind on his face tasted of freedom and oblivion.

Harry had barely made it to the shore of the Black Lake when it happened. Emotions not his own overwhelmed him, forcing him to his knees. Joy, untameable and manic, flooded through him. Euphoria replaced the blood in his veins - an inextinguishable wildfire. The urge to laugh until his voice broke surged within him. He felt it bubble up in his throat, yearning to break out. When it spilt of his lips, he felt at peace, felt light. The stones, which had filled his body for what seemed like an eternity, slowly closing in on his heart, were gone, as though they had never existed at all. If he wanted to, Harry was certain he would be able to fly away.

"Yes", he breathed between laughter, relishing in this unknown elation.

Distantly, he was aware that he was not inside his own head anymore, nor his body. Yet, he could not bring himself to care, unwilling to shut the sliver of joy out. It was the best he had felt in years, gifting him the ability to forget all the misery and suffering. 

_"Harry Potter."_ The words fell from his own lips, spoken contemporaneous with someone else. 

Reality came crashing down upon him, as he recognized the distorted voice inside his head. The delight belonged to none other than the Dark Lord Voldemort. It did not stem from a pure place, but from a sadistic, cruel one - murder and torture. He was still there, lingering beneath the teen's skin like an infectious, festering disease. Harry's scar seemed to burn up, urging him to scratch the skin off his face to soothe the searing pain. 

"GET OUT!" He screamed into the night air, fighting the grip that the other held on his mind.

Harry's hands flew to his head, ripping at strands of hair. Wordlessly, he repeated the words over and over, like a mantra. _Get out, get out, get out, get out._

He did not know how it happened - whether his Occlumency training had been the cause, or Voldemort's grip had slipped over the long distance. Yet, somehow, Harry returned to awareness without a foreign presence buried within his flesh. It was solely him, alone within the vast prison of his mind. He did not feel relieved.

After not having felt such euphoria for an eternity, returning to his glum present felt like drowning inside the Black Lake - trapped deep beneath the surface, suffocating in the midst of murky waters. His body was leaden, robbing him of the ability to stand from the frozen ground. What was there to stop him from simply closing his eyes and allowing the cold to sink into his bones?

"Hem, hem", a bitter-sweet voice sounded from above his closed eyes, "Mr Potter, would you mind explaining to me what you are doing outside the castle after curfew?"

It appeared as though, for once, the universe saved him from the temptation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it Xx
> 
> Please comment to let me know what you think


	4. Under the knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beetle at Bay (1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be touched upon throughout the story, but just in case some of you are wondering: Harry's addiction to intoxicants is not as strong as it was before, because his body isn't dependent. If you get what I mean? He still will have occasional fallbacks, but the main focus of the fic will be on overcoming depression and self-harm. And of course Harrymort.
> 
> Also: in terms of the legislation bit on the age of majority, I am inspired by the Vietnam war and US soldiers. The average age of the American soldier in Vietnam was 19, the youngest 16. They lowered the required voting age from 21 to 18, because there were protests about 'not being old enough to vote, but old enough to fight'. 
> 
> Let's just assume that there are Mocks, like for GCSE and A-Level in the UK :)
> 
> Listen to the song, it's absolutely amazing. Ariel puts so much emotion into her voice (especially the second part) and it's a beautiful message overall.

[ **UNDER THE KNIFE - Icon for Hire** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sk6HMuLJ8bM)

"Hem, hem", a bitter-sweet voice sounded from above his closed eyes, "Mr Potter, would you mind explaining to me what you are doing outside the castle after curfew?"

Harry sighed, keeping his eyes closed: "I collapsed, Professor." 

It was not a lie, technically, even though the cause of his loss of consciousness had not been a medical one. On the other hand, announcing that _'Voldemort is extremely euphoric at the moment and forced his way into my head'_ was certain to get him admitted to St. Mungos with this particular teacher. 

The connection between him and the Dark Lord was stronger than it had been the last time, although he was unable to pinpoint the reasons for this. Whether it was his awareness of the soul shard buried within his scar, or whether it was a result of his increased Occlumency abilities, Harry could not tell. He remembered the frail, shivering creature below the bench at King's Cross. It had been a manifestation of the dying, mutilated soul of Lord Voldemort.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered how the man, who disfigured himself beyond recognition could cling to life with such a force, could clamp down around a miserable existence, simply because it was _life_. Once, he had pitied the Dark Lord for his loveless existence - the ever-present rage, boiling beneath the surface. Now, a part of the teen admired him for the ability to feel such joy, despite the state of his soul. How was it, that Harry, who had loved and grieved, had never been able to feel such a manic euphoria? 

Arguably, Tom Riddle had led a worse life than any other - devoided of the ability to _empathise_ with those around him, to feel elation through other things than murder and torture. Yet, it was undeniable, that the man did not let his past tear him down. It did not matter that he was evil, that he had taken Harry's world and crushed it beneath his feet. In this very moment, the boy merely felt compassion for an abandoned boy, who, in contrast to the younger wizard, had left the agony behind. 

Tom Riddle had reached for the stars; eyes trailed upward, never again searching for glimpses of an oppressive past. Lord Voldemort had emerged from dreams and fears of a boy, the wish to force the cruel world to bow before him burning within.

Harry admired, hated, and understood the man, who sought to destroy the world.

"Would you be so kind, as to help me to the Hospital Wing, Professor. I don't feel very good", he murmured, finally opening his eyes.

The world was a dark symphony of silhouettes, bleeding into one another, ever-shifting in the light breeze. Above him, a wand was held, on the tip of which a bright light shone, forcing clarity into the shadows. Dolores Umbridge stood before him, face hidden by her _Lumos_ , yet unmistakenly recognizable by the pink, unflattering clothing. He had not interacted with her since he had _returned_ , somehow lucky enough to have evaded his Professor. 

Harry made it a point, not to hold grudges after the war. After Mrs Malfoy and Snape, he had to admit, that there were people, who did not have a choice - who made a wrong decision decades prior and paid for it for the remainder of their lives. He had detested many, many people during Voldemort's reign of terror, fuelled by teenage rage and righteousness. His world had been divided between dark and light - good and evil. As he aged, he understood that many had been prisoners of the war, just as him, in a way. Now, the list of people he truly hated with a burning passion had been reduced drastically.

Yet, Dolores Umbridge had immediately been shortlisted for his 'despicable enemies' list. She was the devil incarnate, bringing havoc and destruction upon the world, which was only superseded by the Dark Lord himself. Against her, he had felt more powerless than he ever would against his sworn archenemy. Unable to fight, forced to keep his head down and take the ruthless, painful punishments as though he deserved them. 

Surprisingly, the feelings he held for her had not mellowed with time, not even when she was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban for her war-crimes. Now, however, he was forced once again to swallow the words searing his tongue, itching in the back of his throat. She had power, while he was trapped inside the fifteen-year-old body of a boy hated by the government. 

A trip to the hospital wing would be a reasonable argument to avoid detention with the woman. And if he was honest, he did not feel well enough to stand in any case - too tired, too numb, too _old_. 

"Mobilicorpus", she gritted through her teeth.

Her reluctance to help him was palpable, poisoning the clean night air. However, even with her influence and Ministry backing, there would be dire consequences if she deliberately left a student, who had fainted - technically his mind had merged with a madman's, but who cared about such trivial formalities? - outside of the castle in January. While she could force disobedient students to carve words into their own skin, the death of one of them would draw unwanted attention upon her unethical methods, despite his unpopularity.

Harry's body was lifted off the frozen ground into the air, making him aware of his damp clothes. In an odd way, he missed the peacefulness of lying there, uncaring of the world, missed the numbness. 

The journey to the hospital wing proved to be shorter than he would have expected, though his thoughts did drift to faraway places - sunshine, family, happiness. His body's weightlessness, induced by the spell, was a relief, as his mind sought to replicate the manic joy he had felt mere moments prior. It was to no avail.

"Mr Potter", Madam Pomfrey's voice tore him into reality, her voice exasperated, "I thought we would be able to make it through one year without your presence here!"

Harry forced a smile on his face, though it felt wrong on his features. He did not have the energy to answer.

"He said he _collapsed_ ", Umbridge intoned the words in order to highlight her disbelief in his excuse, "could you identify why he would say such a thing?"

"Of course", the Mediwitch smiled, though her lips were pressed together too tightly and the muscles of her jaw seemed to pop out. "If you could please lie him down here, Dolores?"

The bed was warm and comfortable, despite not being as soft as his fourposter bed in the Griffindor dorms. As he lay there, eyes staring at the ceiling, several spells were cast on him, a drying and warming charm among them, which made his skin tingle. 

The diagnostic spells would not reveal his mental state, nor would they be able to detect the exhaustion, which had settled deeply into his bones. At this age, Harry's body was healthier, devoid of addiction and sleep deprivation. However, the thin, silvery lines of his weakness could be detected with a certain spell. Pulling his sleeves down, Harry prayed that Madam Pomfrey would not deem to use it. 

It seemed to be his lucky day, as the woman set her wand aside without having cast it, in order to disappear into the backroom. Harry and Umbridge were left alone in awkward, hateful silence. He did not doubt the woman's determination to curse him, should the diagnostic not suit her. 

"Alright, Mr Potter", Madam Pomfrey began in a matter-of-fact tone, as she entered the room once more "you have not been eating enough. Your body is slightly underweight. This-" she handed him a paper chart "-is something I would like you to fill out and bring me once a week to calculate your calory intake. It is not a severe case, which is why we will abstain of using potions regularly and rely upon the manual method. I expect to see 3,000 or more calories per day. However, this is a nutritional potion, which will settle your system until breakfast."

Harry nodded, taking the chart and bright blue vial offered to him. He grimaced at the bitter taste of the potion, glad to have taken it in one go. In a way, he was not surprised, as he had always been skinny for his age. He had not felt a proper appetite for a while now, solely eating for the purpose of normalcy. It had been Ron and Hermione, the older ones, who had forced food down his throat during the bad days, urging him to take care of himself. 

Madam Pomfrey was hesitant, gaze flicking to Umbridge, who seemed intent to stay for the duration of the entire examination, before she spoke again: "Is there a particular reason for your weight loss - anything you would like to tell me?"

It was a standard question, Harry supposed, designed to remedy eating disorders as soon as possible. He almost laughed at the mental image of the Mediwitch's face, should he tell her of all his issues. 

Instead, however, he settled for: "No, madame. I haven't been particularly hungry lately. Stress, I guess, with this being my OWL year and all."

"Of course", she smiled, though it did not reach her eyes, a gesture just as empty as his own. "Dolores, if you do not have any additional queries, I must ask you to leave the room. Mr Potter will stay here tonight, under observation of course, and he needs to rest."

"Naturally", the devil agreed, before turning on her heels and leaving the hospital wing with short, deliberate steps. Her words reminded Harry of acid upon a candy cane, leaving a cold feeling beneath his skin.

Once she was gone, Madam Pomfrey nodded at him, flicking her wand to extinguish the lights, before retiring to her own quarters. That night, Harry slept peacefully, consciousness teetering on the edge between his own mind and another's. Neither of them realized. 

*

The next morning, breakfast was a disastrous affair, to say the least. Harry was embarrassed to say that he had forgotten about the mass-breakout of Azkaban. At a time, in which the war played in the shadows, a hidden conflict between Voldemort and the Order, the outbreak had seemed like the end of the world, a monumental shift within the power-balance. However, as the Dark Lord's return had become public knowledge, Harry had been too preoccupied with the prophecy and numerous attempts on his life to properly focus on the escape date of the Death Eaters. During his year on the run, it had mattered little.

On the other hand, the burst of euphoria should have rung all alarm bells within him. Harry was ashamed to admit that he had focused on his enjoyment, rather than the reasons behind Voldemort's elation. It made him feel dirty, broken. The churning sensation in his gut was difficult to ignore.

"Did you feel anything?", Hermione asked with a pointed look towards his scar, once he pushed the paper away from him.

"No", Harry lied, unable to admit his guilt, even to his friends, "not with Snape teaching me Occlumency. There was a prickling, but no concrete feeling."

"Where were you last night anyway?", Ron changed the topic abruptly, wedging a sausage into his mouth in one go. 

Those were not _his_ friends, Harry realized once more. Not _his_ Hermione, who had been able to recognize his every lie within his eyes. Not _his_ Ron, who had lifted him out of a red-stained tub, shouting at him to _stay awake_. Perhaps they never would be, if his endeavour to create a better future succeeded. Their friendship would never be tried and fortified by a year on the run, fighting the cold and starvation. In the end, it would not matter, if they could have a better life - if all of them could. They were still here, by his side, though it was in a different way.

"Hospital wing", Harry retorted, while searching his bag for the chart he had received.

"Are you alright?", Hermione exclaimed, her voice too shrill and loud. The Gryffindors around them threw odd glances their way. His brunette friend had the decency to throw an apologetic smile his way. 

"Yeah, I just need to eat more", he informed them of the diagnosis, noting the contents of his plate upon the paper.

He almost missed the looks Ron and Hermione exchanged, too preoccupied with his calculations. The chart was charmed to transform the name of a dish into the roughly estimated amount of calories, which made Harry's heart sink. He doubted his ability to eat more than the piece of treacle tart to which he had helped himself. 

Before he knew it, however, his plate and paper were snatched from his grip, leaving him to incredulously stare at his friends. The two of them, however, did not spare him a glance, as they began to cooperate. 

"No, don't put another pastry on his plate, it's not healthy. We want him to gain weight in a healthy way, not through fat", Hermione chided, pointing towards a bowl of fruit, "put some of that on instead."

Soon, a plate filled with a variety of flavours was set before him, accompanied by a filled-out chart. 

"We're not leaving until you finish your food, mate", Ron grinned, tucking into his own scrambled eggs. It warmed Harry's heart in a familiar, yet foreign way. Perhaps they resembled their future-selves more than he thought.

*****

Upon being pressured by the popular demand following the Daily Prophet's newest article, Harry announced the first DA meeting to take place the same day, prior to dinner. Slowly, the students began to trickle into the room, all of them travelling as individuals, as to be inconspicuous. While waiting for the 'lesson' to begin, they gossiped with one another about the latest decree brought forth by their horrid defence teacher. He felt oddly distant, watching his peers interact - felt old and broken. 

"Are you alright, Harry?" Neville stood beside him, nervously spinning his wand between his fingers.

Only now did Harry realise how much the boy had changed in the past decade, the one which only existed within his thoughts. The Neville he remembered had not drawn up his shoulders in an attempt to shield himself from the world. Where there was insecurity, there had been confidence. The strong jaw and high cheekbones were now rounded, baby-fat not quite melted away yet. Yet, no matter the time-line or situation, the boy always offered an encouraging smile. 

Harry had talked to him, a lifetime ago, about the prophecy - had revealed the different possibilities. The boy had merely laughed at the thought of himself as a hero. 

_"I'm not brave enough_ _"_ , he had explained, shaking his head with a sad smile, _"I would not have been able to do what you did - to fight him so many times at such a young age. Not to mention my lack of abilities concerning duelling. You were the one to teach me everything I know, during the DA. Voldemort would have killed me in a heartbeat."_

Despite the self-deprecating words, Harry had known the truth. No matter how slow of a learner Neville was, or how nervous he got while duelling, he was brave in a different way - one which Harry could only dream of. 

The wizard had led a rebel group inside of Hogwarts, had endured torture and oppression. As a Pureblood, he had been given the choice to choose the easy path, to bow down to the changing regime, to the Dark Lord. Instead, he had followed his consciousness, had protected Muggle-borns and Half-bloods. He had been the one to draw Gryffindor's sword from the hat in order to destroy the last remaining Horcrux. However, the trait Harry admired the most, was seeing him cope with loss. He had seen Neville exit his parent's room multiple times in the past, had seen the crushed hope in those dark eyes. 

_"They will never recognize me, never truly know that it is their son standing before them. Still, every time I go into that damn room, a part of me hopes, that_ maybe _, this time they will"_ , the blond had once admitted over a bottle of fire-whiskey and a packet of cigarettes, _"I search their eyes for the tiniest flicker of perception. Sometimes, when the light falls in the wrong way, I think that this is it, the moment in which my family will restore itself. Of course, it never is. Yet, I come back every time, bearing the same, foolish hopes, though nothing changes. Did you know that Einstein described such behaviour as insanity?"_

Neville Longbottom had, in a way, a worse fate than Harry, damned to live with the improbable hope of regaining his family. While Harry struggled to function, Neville soldiered on, creating the best possible future for himself. He was braver than the sable-haired boy could ever be - a hero in his own way.

"I'm fine", Harry answered with a short smile, "how was the rest of your holidays?" He wanted to ask how the boy was coping with the recent news, though felt uncertain, whether or not it was his place to do so. 

Neville shrugged: "Same as always. Gran had some friends over for Christmas. What spells are we doing today?"

"I'll announce that right now." The cocky grin felt wrong on his features. "Everyone", he demanded the student's attention by raising his voice, "By now, everyone has likely seen yesterday's paper. We will in the following weeks - or months, depending on our pace - finish working on the Shield Charm and begin with the Patronus. Before we do so, however, I want to make a few things clear. Hermione-" he turned towards his bushy-haired friend "- would you do me the honour of a quick duel?"

Her confusion was clearly visible in her face, though she gave a small nod, stepping forward. Harry had not discussed this with her, nor with Ron, as it had been a spur-of-the-moment idea. The remaining students stood in a circle around them, creating enough space for the pair to stand opposite one another, the standard distance for duelling between them. With a flick of his wand, he raised a protective barrier between them and the spectators.

Then, slowly, he began to explain: "Undoubtedly, you all know the theory of duelling, which was, perhaps, the only thing Lockhart ever taught anyone. However, what I teach you here is not for the purpose of regulation duels. This is self-defence-" another flick of his wand and he held Hermione's familiar, yet foreign one in his hand, ignoring her surprised and agitated look "-which is why you cannot count on a fair fight. Your opponent may attack wordlessly and surprisingly, robbing you of the time to properly defend yourself."

He returned the wand, before continuing: "Now. Hermione and I will perform a mock duel. She may use any spell at me, regulations be damned."

They turned towards one another, wands drawn. Hermione, still miffed by her sudden disarmament, was the first to move, her wand performing an intricate pattern. Moving lips betrayed the incantation, though it was whispered.

_"Colloshoo."_

While she did not possess the same strategic finesse as her future husband, the brunette was smart, no matter her age. She understood which spells she had to use to catch her opponent off guard and guarantee her a quick, efficient victory. The stick-fast hex was no different, especially if it was followed by the knock-back jinx. Paired, these two spells could break the victim's legs if cast with enough force - which his friend certainly possessed. 

However, Harry held a decade's worth of experience over her. Granted, the past two years had not exactly been _educational_ to him - one could not improve any skills by apathetically staring at one's bedroom ceiling. Still, up until his resignment of the Auror Training, he had passed the duelling part with flying colours. Additionally, the ability to recognize the behavioural patterns of his opponents, such as the range of spells and their nature, had been drilled into him. No matter the time, he was shockingly familiar with Hermione's style of fighting.

Therefore, the sable-haired wizard had no difficulty sidestepping the first spell and blocking the second one. He did not retaliate, wishing to enable his students to truly understand the lesson he sought to teach. 

Throughout the following minutes, Hermione threw many hexes and jinxes at him, some of which they had learned in the DA or general lessons, others of which the brilliant witch had self-studied. It reminded him of better days, in which Hermione corrected his or Ron's posture while they practised for their Training. She had always been exceptional at the theory behind each spell, able to execute instructions flawlessly. 

When her hair began to fall from her braid in messy strands, Harry resolved to end the duel. Silently, he sent a flurry of spells towards his friend, most of which were harmless, such as the tickling jinx. He could feel her shield strain under the assault of his spells, caving inwards. It did not take long for her concentration to break, allowing a simple disarming spell to hit her square in the chest. 

Harry addressed his students once more, after handing the brunette her wand: "Hermione is a formidable example on how I expect you to perform the spells. She knows the spells well enough to use them without putting thought into it, which would cost her valuable seconds. However, in the real world, you will not be fighting harmless opponents. Had I been a Dark wizard, every spell I used could have been an Unforgivable, possessing to penetrate her shield charm with incredible ease. If I had wished to harm her, it would not have been difficult.

Death Eaters are adults with _decades_ of fighting-experience. They will send harmful, destructive spells at you, uncaring of any circumstances. Many of them fight for Voldemort out of _loyalty_. They will not fear death in order to please him. Their willingness to take risks makes them unpredictable opponents - a wildcard if you will. The ones who broke out of Azkaban count craziness to their strengths. You cannot rely on predicting their next move, as it will rarely be understandable to sane people. 

Should _any_ of you stand across them in one-on-one combat, I want you to _run_. You - we are children. I know you want to fight - to feel as though you are protecting your families and country. However, none of us should be involved in this war under any circumstances. There are sufficient adults with abilities, which supersede yours at present. Yet, the Death Eaters will target you, whether it is for your blood status or families. The things I teach you should only be used to cover your escape, not to stand your ground in a fight."

The words hung heavily in the air, silence stretching itself above the room, as though it were a thick, suffocating blanket. Wide eyes clung to Harry's form, disbelief palpable. They could not believe that Harry Potter - the sole survivor of the killing curse, who fought Umbridge at every turn and yearned to be included in this war - would avidly discourage them from fighting. Truly, he would not have done so at that age, too caught up in his own righteous morals. He had felt as though the fate of the world had rested upon his shoulders, leading him to storm head-first into multiple dangerous situations. The behaviour had been harmful to every single of his loved ones. 

It was Lee Jordan, who broke the eerie silence, verbalizing the thoughts of every Gryffindor inside the room: "You want us to stand back, like cowards, while others fight for our future? We are the ones who will have to live in this world, the next generation! If we don't fight-"

"If you don't fight", Harry interrupted, forcing finality into his voice, "then the Wizarding World will have a future. Do you know why our class is so small? Why there are barely fifty students in one year, even though we are the only school in Britain and the oldest one world-wide? It is because we've had two wars in the last century alone - devastating ones. We allowed children to join the ranks, sometimes before they even left school! So many pureblooded families were extinguished because we taught children such a moral compass, that they felt pressured to join a war they did not start. We are all part of the same societal disease."

Harry had not seen it, had fought because it had been expected of him. It had cost him everything. His life, his family, his happiness - destroyed by a Dark Lord and a simple, self-fulfilling prophecy. _Not this time_ , he thought with the grim conviction of a soldier, _this time will be better._

"Rich coming from you. How many times did you have some epic, danger induced adventure at the end of the school year?", Zacharia Smith sniped, a sneer on his lips, which was worthy of a Malfoy.

"This is exactly the problem", Harry spoke in an oddly calm way. He had come to terms with the world's injustice a long time ago. "Every single situation I got in was caused by my mistrust in adult's abilities. I felt as though I was the only one who could save the situation. No minor should feel like this - no minor should be involved in a life-threatening situation. Do not seek them out out of a misplaced need for justice or morality. What I teach you is meant as protection, not as a weapon. I am not training you as soldiers - I am training you as survivors.

There is a reason that there is an age of majority. Do you honestly believe that, while the law forbids you to drink, or vote, that you should fight a war? And yet, the age is seventeen - lower than in the states, lower than in the muggle world. If you look at the history of legislation in Great Britain, you will find that it has not been this low since the beginning of the century. Do you know why? They sought soldiers to fight their wars when there were no more adults left standing."

The argument was sound and logical, silencing the protest burning on some members' tongues. They would understand, with time, with age. Harry would do everything in his power to give them the time - to keep them alive. 

The limp body of Collin Creevey's limp body flashed before his eyes. He had looked tiny in death, his face too pale, eyes glassy and wide. It had been Harry's fault in so many ways. Not only had he brought upon the Battle of Hogwarts, but he had encouraged them to fight with his teaching methods, had made them feel like great wizards when in reality, they were nothing but children. Eager to fight, because they were unaware of the costs of it. 

This time would be different. He would change the course of history. 

"Right", Harry cleared his throat, "if there is nothing else, we will resume with the Shield Charm. Pair up, please." The smile on his lips felt forced.

Later, when the session had ended and most of the DA had left, Hermione hesitantly stepped before him, wand twirling between her fingers. She bit her lip, staring at him for multiple moments. 

Finally, she spoke: "I didn't know that those were your thoughts on the matter - nor that you were interested in the legislative history. During Summer, you were so insistent on fighting, that it is hard to believe this new perspective."

Harry sighed, his fingers unconsciously pulling at his sleeve. "I told you that there were some things I needed to think about", he quietly lied, guilt weighing heavily, "this is one of those things."

"Do you-", she trailed off, searching for words. A strange shadow of an emotion flitted across her features, one which the younger teen had not seen before. "Do you not want to be involved in the war?"

Harry Potter tasted of war. It lay heavily on his tongue, hid behind his ever-green eyes, burned within his scar. He could feel battles etched into his skin, embedded deeply into his bones. The memories of the conflict were forever stitched into his memory, his flesh, creating the person standing. He fell apart, broken by the war, slowly dissolving, crushed beneath the weight of the world. It was merely the possibilities of a better future, which held him together. 

Therefore, the question seemed so ridiculous, so very absurd. Yet, it was appropriate, even natural. Why was it Hermione who asked him this question and not Dumbledore?

"I do not have a choice in that matter", Harry bitterly replied, head bowed. Exertion began to settle upon him once more, seemingly binding his body to the ground.

It was a truth. His decision had been taken from him before his birth - made the very moment the prophecy fell from Trewlaney's lips. How could he choose a life away from war, when he was the only one able to defeat Voldemort. If he chose differently, his friends and family were doomed. 

So, Harry would fight once more. Yet, it would be a different fight. He would play by his own rules, tailoring a better world than the one he had yearned to leave. 

***

School proved to be difficult - the normalcy forced upon him by teachers and students alike. Surprisingly, the contents they were taught did not turn out to be as incredibly easy for Harry as he might have expected. Certainly, the spells fell effortless from his lips, especially in Transfiguration and Defense. However, the theory and history behind them was something that he had forgotten in the decade he had spent living a different life. Apparently, no matter how many spells one knew, essays sucked one way or another. 

The workload was unenjoyable and the pressure high. Teachers took OWLs incredibly serious, stressing that their grades would determine their NEWTs and career prospects. Overall, the pressure seemed to increase with every passing day. Last time, he had not quite registered the general atmosphere - too preoccupied with Voldemort and their connection - which had shown in his grades. 

As the fifth and seventh years prepared for their respective Mock exams, tears were an ordinary sight within the castle. On Wednesday, Harry saw a group of students sitting in the library, bawling their eyes out. Despite Madam Pince's commands, all of them had refused to exit the library, too insistent on continuing their studies, though tears were dripping onto their books. It baffled Harry, that they cried over such trivial matters when a war was brewing on the horizon.

Umbridge was just as much of a menace, as Harry remembered her to be. She observed classes, her signature clipboard and acidic smile accompanying her wherever she went. The best tactic with which Harry came up was to simply keep his head down for as long as possible, in order to avoid detention. 

There was a steady, buzzing stream of _emotions_ coming from the Dark Lord, though there were muted, somehow - as if they were impressions of feelings, rather than the actual thing. It was terrifying, a constant reminder of the soul shard embedded in his scar, desperately clinging to him, tainting him. 

For almost a week, life seemed simple, superficial even. Alas, nothing could ever last when it came to Harry Potter. It truly was a curse, that it happened during Defense Against the Dark Arts, under Umbridge's watchful eyes. 

The teen sat in his usual seat, eyes straining to read the words written in a small print on the pages of his textbook. He was exhausted, despite the good night's sleep, he had gotten the day prior. His glasses felt restrictive, itching upon the bridge of his nose, as his eyes squinted at the blurring letters. A yawn threatened to escape his mouth, though he fought to suppress it, lest he wished to lose points on the ground of _'You must stay awake during class, Mr Potter'._ In an attempt to subtly distract himself from the text, which frankly held more narcotics than horse tranquillizer, Harry lifted his gaze towards the front of the classroom.

He froze when his eyes fell upon Lavender Brown, who hung dangerously close above her book, eyes closed. Though he was uncertain, which part of the image set him off, a memory surfaced with vicious force.

_A body - falling from a higher floor, past the staircase. The werewolf - dirty, disgusting - crouching over it, sinking teeth and claws into soft flesh, tearing, wounding. Blood flooding from open wounds, limbs spasming in pain, consciousness gone. Last breaths falling from trembling lips, bitten bloody in agony._

The world seemed to close in around him, creating a vacuum, in which no sound was to be heard. At this moment, nothing but the memory existed, replaying itself over and over. It did not matter that Lavender sat two feet from him, living and breathing. She had died at seventeen - had not yet seen anything of the world, not reached any goals, not lived in a peaceful world - because of _him_.

_This is all your fault. You are a worse beast than Voldemort. How can you claim to aid any of them, when such copious amounts of blood coat your skin? How can you sit here, living and breathing, while they gave their futures and dreams for you? You do not deserve happiness, not after all you have done._

Voices whispered in his head, cursing his existence, his presence in the world. Harry's fingers gripped the edge of his desk painfully hard. His nails dug into the wood, leaving crescent-shaped marks behind. _He was to blame_. He should be punished for those crimes - should find absolution in it.

As he stood, Harry felt as though he was merely a passenger in his body, observing the world around him as a stranger, while someone else controlled his movements. 

"Mr Potter!" Even the shrill voice of Umbridge was unable to pierce through the detached haze of his mind. 

He needed clarity, needed pain, needed punishment, needed blood.

"Mr Potter, sit down this instant!"

His pace increased. Harry needed to get out, get somewhere quiet, empty, where he could give himself the penalty he deserved. He was unaware that he staggered through the classroom, knocking against desks and stumbling over bags. 

"Detention!"

"Harry!" Was that Hermione?

It did not matter - nothing did.

The first cut was executed less than two minutes later, inside a cubicle of the men's bathroom on the third floor. The stinging pain was pure ecstasy, a blissful awareness that he was doing the _right_ thing. It felt so simple to drag the tip of his wand over the skin. Satisfaction, caused by the image of blood welling up from a shallow cut, took over his senses, warring with the guilt.

He deserved agony, deserved scars to show the world what horrors he had done. 

A second cut followed, deeper than the first. Dark blood dripped onto the light tiles in a slow, hypnotizing rhythm. The contrast between the scars on his skin and the fresh blood was an addictive image, rivalling the sensation of the cut itself.

Some memories never left the mind, ingraining themselves within the very being, until one assumed them to be a part of oneself. They were embedded within the bones and blood of the body, devouring happy thoughts and relaxing moments. The resulting guilt was not a rational thing - not a conscious decision made. Instead, it was a growing coil of darkness, swallowing any other emotion, slowly taking over thoughts and heart. It influenced actions and words, drowning Harry from the inside out.

How could anyone love him - accept him - when he reeked of war and heartache; when his skin felt like battle scars and his eyes spoke of unknown terrors. His tears felt like blood, as they left his eyes, joining the signs of his trial on the tiles. 

Yet, despite the self-hatred and guilt drowning his thoughts, suffocating him, a tiny voice whispered inside his mind. A voice, which spoke of hope, of light - a sliver of moonlight in the darkest night.

_You promised to be strong for them._

He ripped his had away, halfway through the third cut, hurling his wand away from him, so that it slid out beneath the door of the cubicle - out of reach.

Harry's hands buried in his hair, nails digging into his scalp, pulling at the strands. His mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to express the turmoil and madness with. Sobs escaped him, while his breath came uneven, trembling. The soft rocking motion was an attempt to ground himself, as he sat on the cold, harsh floor. 

_Weak_. He was so weak, so pathetic. Harry had caused death and destruction, had watched his world burn for his safety. Yet, he could not live for those he had wronged, could not fight for their survival. Perhaps it would have been better, had he died that night in the mountains. The young man had certainly been ready to, had prepared everything meticulously. Instead, here he was. They deserved a saviour. Instead, they obtained a broken boy, whose heart and mind laid in shambles, scattered across time.

Harry leaned forward, emptying his stomach's contents into the toilet before him. 

He was weak.

[ **MY TUMBLR** ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/night-without-stars-9-9-9)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wounds on his forearms were magically induced, therefore, they scared despite magical healing.
> 
> Comments are always welcome!! :)


	5. Bottle and a gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beetle at Bay (2/2)
> 
> Slytherin streak comes out to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that 'The Devil Wears Prada' did not come out until 2006, but I wanted to make the reference anyway. I hope you can forgive me. :))
> 
> So sorry that it took longer to update, but my browser updated itself when I was halfway through the chapter and deleted 3000 words. I was very annoyed but here we are.

**[SEE YOU SOON - Lord of the Lost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jWMtFGDHffE) **

The toilet seat was smooth against his palms, cooling his overheated skin. Harry's breath came in laboured, irregular pants, as he rested his forehead on his hands. The taste of bile lingered heavily on his tongue, staining his teeth with a disgusting texture. Outside, the world was quiet and blissfully unaware of the broken boy waging war against his own demons. Sobs shook his body. Quivering shoulders and trembling fingers spoke of desperation.

The teen did not know how long he crouched inside the stall, all sense of time lost within the chaos of his mind. It took him an incredible, horrendous amount of power to stand on his unsteady feet. In a futile attempt to brace himself, Harry's fingers clutched the door tight enough for his knuckles to lose colouring.

 _Weak_. He was weak. How could the boy save the world if he could not even save himself? 

Carefully, Harry opened the door, retrieving his wand. There was an odd distance between him and the occurrences, as though he had been a mere spectator. The wand did not feel like his own when he vanished any evidence of his deficiencies, healing his wounds.

The teen halted before the door, aware that outside, consequences would await with bared teeth and sharp tongues. Undoubtedly, there would be questions - from his friends, his teachers, Umbridge - which he would be unable to answer. Bearing all the bravery he could muster, he gripped the doorknob, twisting it. 

Surprisingly, the corridor was void of any living or dead soul. Few portraits hung on the walls, none of which paid him any mind, too engrossed in their own conversations. Somehow, the teen had expected Umbridge to stand before the door, eyes ablaze with fury and sadism. Perhaps these expectations were remnants of a time in which he had been a war hero, his every misstep surveyed. However, here, Harry Potter was nothing more than a student. A famous one, certainly, but a student none the less. The Hogwarts High Inquisitor had no time to search for rebellious students, who had no choice but to resurface. 

Harry halted in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame in order to steady himself. His legs were shaking, barely strong enough to hold him upright, despite his regular runs. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on the hard stones, allowing himself a pause from everything. The prospect of facing anyone at the moment, especially Ron and Hermione, forced him to hide his wand away with shaking fingers. 

They did not deserve the guilt, the heartache, and agony that coated Harry's being like an oil film. His closest friends, who were willing to walk towards death by his side, should know the truth about him - the disease that festered within his mind. If they Ron and Hermione knew to what lengths he had gone in the past decade, they would despise him, would be disgusted. As teenagers, the future couple had been - was - just as righteous as Harry. In their eyes, the world was divided into good and evil.

The simplistic view made it easier to live in such a cruel reality. Every villain would eventually be defeated by a hero, who would bring prosperity with him. After Sirius' death, Harry had known that there would be no miracles, no saviours, no god. He had screamed, prayed, begged for _something_ to bring his godfather back to him, a carefree grin on his lips, as though nothing had occurred. It had taken him surprisingly long to realise that he had to be his own hero. Shaping the world around him into an acceptable life was his own responsibility, as was his happiness. He would do so this time around.

Carefully, Harry pushed off the wall, fully stepping into the corridor. He could not tell how much time had passed, nor how long he had until the period ended. At present, he had two choices concerning the next destination. One of them was the hospital wing, though the teen was reluctant of seeking out Madam Pomfrey. In her attempt to locate the reason for his sickness, the matron might discover some _unpleasant_ things. He had been lucky enough the last time and was unwilling to test it once more. Therefore, the only other possibility was to return to his lesson and face the consequences.

Harry pressed the balls of his hands against his closed eyes, bracing himself, before slowly making his way back. He had faced Lord Voldemort, yet the prospect of a raging ministry official still made him uneasy. The slow trudge towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom felt remarkably similar to the way of the cross. _Highway to Hell_ , the teen mused, _more like Corridor to Hell._

Who knew that the Devil did not wear Prada, but rather an unflattering ensemble in an alarming shade of pink?

Harry's knock was barely audible, scarcely more than a light tapping of his knuckles against the dark wood. Yet, it seemed as though it was loud enough for Professor Umbridge to hear. 

"Come in", the sickly sweet voice ordered from within the classroom.

The teen followed the command, stepping into a room filled with stares. Nervously, he pulled at his sleeves, stretching the fabric. Fifth-year Gryffindor and Slytherins projected an odd mixture of hostility and concern, though the former overpowered the latter. At the front, Umbridge stood, acidic sweetness oozing of her in suffocating waves.

"Mr Potter", she said with a smile that could cut through steel, "would you care to enlighten us, as to why you chose to behave in such a rebellious way?"

"I apologize, Professor, I was was unwell", he did not even attempt a smile, certain that it would be insincere. 

The woman's features fell into a frown, as she stepped closer. Despite her height or lack thereof, the stride was menacing. "I thought after our last detention you knew not to tell lies, Mr Potter. Perhaps we ought to let it sink in further?"

 _Detention_. Harry could not carve words over and over into himself - not when he was attempting to overcome his crippling addiction. Not when the image of blood upon his skin gave him unknown satisfaction. Not when the pain eased the guilt. _You deserve it_ , the voice within his mind whispered, _you deserve agony and despair for everything you did - every life that you ended through your actions._

With a flick of her wand, Umbridge made a note write itself upon the well-organised desk. Harry's jaw clenched as the parchment floated towards him, once it was written and sealed. Reluctantly, he plucked it out the air. His fingers twitched in an attempt to curl tightly around the material, though he stopped himself before he could crumple it beyond recognition.

"You know the process, Mr Potter. I am certain that Professor McGonagall will be thrilled to see you so soon." She dismissed him with another acidic smile. 

Under the curious gazes of his peers, Harry exited the classroom. The injustice of his situation made him want to scream. Curse words lay heavily upon his tongue, itching in the back of his throat. He was an adult, not a rebellious student. The teen had seen the horrors of war, had experienced the vicinity of death, had felt loss, torture, and suffering. Fourfold, he had sought to end his life, three times voluntarily. Yet, here he was, facing punishment for his unstable mental health. 

His steps were unsteady and heavy, as he made his way towards his Head of House. Professor McGonagall's office was adjacent to the Transfiguration classroom, which was where he found her, teaching a group of first-year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaws. 

"Mr Potter", she acknowledged with a surprising nod, while he entered after a respectful knock.

"Professor Umbridge sent me." He held up the pink parchment, which the Deputy Headmistress seemed familiar with, as her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I see", she turned towards the nosy students, "Keep practising. Mr Potter, my office."

Harry followed the tall witch, taking the indicated seat opposite her desk. She took the parchment from him, breaking the seal in order to read it. Behind her spectacles, her eyes moved from side to side, while her frown increased in severity the more learned. When the Professor faced him once more, a sigh escaped her lips, as she ran a hand down her face. The usually composed exterior seemed to crumble.

"You left Professor Umbridge's lesson without a word, only to reappear half an hour later with a 'pathetic excuse'?" Minerva McGonagall looked exasperated, her fingers tapping against the wood in an odd rhythm. 

"I was unwell", Harry quietly repeated. It was the truth, regardless of how many details he omitted. 

The woman sighed: "Why did you not seek out the hospital wing? It would have given your statement credibility if it indeed was the truth."

"I threw up and it was fine afterwards." Even to his own ears, this sounded like an implausible lie.

"The next two weeks, starting tomorrow, you have detention with her every evening."

 _Two weeks_. He did not know whether he would be able to resist the temptation of pain, the promise of redemption. The blood quill would worsen the matter, would lure him into a downwards spiral, of which the destination would be suicide. He had done it before, had given into his guilt and suffered the consequences. 

"Mr Potter", the look she gave him seemed to penetrate his very being, uncovering all his well-kept secrets, "if there is anything you need to talk about- I know that the latest decree bans me from conversing about anything unrelated to my subject matter, but as your Head of House, it is my duty to assure your well-being. If there is anything on your mind, I will listen."

Professor McGonagall was a stern woman and a strict teacher. Yet, there was an unexpected sweetness to her, a certain love for her students and Hogwarts. However hopeless the situation, she stood by the school and protected the children with fierceness. Harry admired her. However, she would not understand the reasons for his issues. 

He had found that those, who did not struggle with mental health, were unable to comprehend it. How many times had he heard those simple words: _Just stop cutting. Put the war behind you. Move on._ Perhaps those were the worst of all, as they made him feel as though something was wrong with him - as though he was dysfunctional, broken. The ever-logical Minerva McGonagall would certainly fall into that particular category, no matter how genuine her sentiments towards him were.

"No, Professor", he forced a smile upon his lips, "There is nothing."

_He needed help._

*

Harry didn't have a chance to privately talk to Ron or Hermione until after dinner that night. They congregated inside the common room, exchanging occasional glances until most students had disappeared inside their dormitories. 

Only then did Hermione speak up, her voice scolding: "Harry, what on earth were you thinking? I thought you would keep your head down!"

"I wasn't feeling well, Hermione. It wasn't a conscious decision, for Merlin's sake!" He had forgotten how easily sixteen-year-old Hermione threw accusations at him. Though they usually came from a place of love, she had not yet mastered the ability to phrase them in an amicable, delicate way. Despite the recent slander against Harry and Dumbledore, the young witch still held unshakeable faith in authority figures, including the Ministry. It would take a war for her to accept the government's corruptness.

"I'm sorry", Harry quickly apologized, as he saw the stricken expression upon his friends' faces, "I didn't mean to snap at you-" he ran a hand over his face "-it's just been a long day. I've had a lot of... _issues_ lately."

The confession was pathetic and uninformative. His friends deserved more than such minimalistic excuses. He was a horrible friend.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, which seemed to be of great importance, yet incomprehensible to Harry. 

"Mate", the redhead shifted in his seat, gaze focused somewhere on the ceiling, "you know that we accept you no matter what, right? It doesn't matter to us what your preferences are."

If the Potter heir had to describe his thoughts at present, a big, red question mark would have done nicely. His friend's words, paired with the blush creeping up his ears confused Harry greatly. 

"What Ron means to say", Hermione interjected hastily, aware of the frown upon the sable-haired wizard's face, "is that we don't mind you not _liking_ girls."

Oh. _Oh_. 

"No! No, it's not like that!" Harry exclaimed, his blush rivalling Ron's. "I mean it is, kind off... I like girls, I think, but I also like boys?"

Hermione lifted an eyebrow, questioning. Meanwhile, Ron seemed oddly invested in the embroidered pattern decorating his armchair, his face bearing a shocking resemblance to the colour of his hair. 

"I'm bisexual", Harry admitted, a shy glance towards his friends. 

"That's fine", Hermione smiled, "better than fine, actually. We accept you, no matter what your preferences are."

Ron nodded furiously, finally able to look his friend into the eyes. "Yeah, we don't mind. Just don't start snogging some ponce."

They stared at each other for a moment, before bursting out into laughter, loud and carefree. The sable-haired wizard felt better than he had in a long time. 

"How did you know?", Harry finally queried, 

"It's just that Cho has been sending you signals throughout the last week, clearly inviting you to talk to her and ask her out. You haven't so much as looked at her, even though you two seemed to be a sure thing before the holidays. And when you said that you needed to figure some things out-" The brunette trailed off, mirth glinting in her eyes.

Cho Chang. Regardless of the amount of time passing, Harry would never be able to forget the disastrous date he had with the witch. _'Madam Puddifoot's'_ had been a cenotaph in the past decade, a reminder of his devastating love life. 

"I don't think it would have worked between the two of us", he confessed with a smile. 

"So", Ron seemed hesitant, "do you... _like_ anyone?"

Harry smiled in a mischievous way, before teasing: "You know, I always thought Malfoy was good looking."

The speed with which the redhead's blush blanched was alarming. 

"Just joking", he added hastily, unwilling to induce a heart attack in a fifteen-year-old. 

From there, the atmosphere relaxed significantly. A steady stream of good-natured mocking and honest conversation flooded between the friends. When they finally left the common room in favour of their dormitories, Harry felt almost light, void of the stones tieing him to the ground. Perhaps this could truly be different from the last time - better. 

As he lay in bed, Harry's thoughts were racing. A plan. He needed a plan in order to change the future. Despite his unsuccessful history with plans and their usual failures, it was only prudent to devise a course of action in such a sticky situation.

In order to defeat the Dark Lord, one had to destroy a number of Horcruxes. A locket, a ring, a snake, a diadem, a cup, and a fifteen-year-old teenager. Unfortunately, said teen was stuck in the restrictive institution named 'school', which prevented him from travelling across the country to perform such a task. The only object in his vicinity was the diadem. Harry was therefore forced to delay his quest until summer. Hopefully, he would not be under constant surveillance outside of Hogwarts. Yet, Harry decided, he would cross that bridge when he got to it. More pressing matters demanded his attention.

There would, undoubtedly, be a vision of Sirius Black within the Ministry, being tortured - Voldemort's attempt to lure the teen inside in order to take the Prophecy. Of course, Harry would disregard this vision entirely, allowing his godfather's life to continue. However, the Dark Lord's reaction was unpredictable. He could, possibly, enter the ministry as a last resort in order to obtain the prophecy. Additionally, the wizarding world would be unaware - or in denial - of his return, which would complicate the fight against the wizard. 

Should Voldemort remain hidden, Harry had to devise a way with which he could regain credibility and draw attention to the upcoming war. 

The most elegant solution would remain the interview with Rita Skeeter, organized by Hermione in the aftermath of the mass-breakout of Azkaban. He merely had to add some _alternations_ in order to ensure the wanted outcome. A strategically written letter should suffice. 

***

_Dear Minister C. Fudge,_

_I hereby invite you to meet me at the Three Broomsticks, Hogsmead, on the 14th of February at 2 o'clock._

_You will find that I possess some interesting information concerning Albus Dumbledore and the events surrounding the Triwizard Tournament._

_Send me your confirmation by owl, should you be interested._

_Kind regards,_

_Harry J. Potter_

***

Detention with Dolores Jane Umbridge, resident devil incarnate, was something which Harry could not endure under any circumstances. He would not allow the voices planting thoughts of guilt and despair into his mind to gain the upper hand. The teen had to be strong, had to persevere for his friends, his surrogate family in order to shape a better, brighter future for them. He would not allow his weakness to rob them of a life devoided of war and destruction. Yet, no matter how he twisted the possibilities in his head, there was only one possible escape from his punishment. 

It was therefore with great reluctance that Harry found himself standing before the hospital wing, batteling his shame. For fifteen minutes, the dark-haired wizard lingered in the corridor, searching for the courage to open the door. 

He needed help - it was unquestionable. However, merely imagining the look in the matron's eyes when she saw the despicable weakness marring his skin sent shivers down his back. He did not want to be seen as fragile, as broken. The teen despised the calculating looks thrown in his direction whenever a word was spoken in his vicinity. Once they knew of his condition, they looked at him as though the slightest movement could send him into a frenzy. He hated being different.

In the end, the decision was taken off his hands, as the door swung open and he came face to face with Madame Pomfrey.

"Mr Potter", she sounded surprised, "I was not expecting you until Friday."

"I-" Words seemed to be stuck in his throat, unwilling to be formulated. His very being resisted his attempts at confession. "I-"

The woman's face seemed to fall, unmasked concern etched upon her face. "Why don't you come inside", she advised him, stepping back into the infirmary. 

"I need help." In an attempt to get it over with, the sentence left his mouth in a rushed, sloppy way, his articulation horrible. 

Yet, it seemed as though the witch had understood him, as she gestured towards her office: "Take a seat. I will make some tea."

Minutes later, a steaming cup of lemon and ginger tea stood before him. It was laced with several drops of calming draught, which was clearly identifiable by its strong lavender aroma. Thankful, Harry took a few sips, uncaring of the searing heat burning his tongue. The potion lessened the tremor in his hands, slowing his heartbeat to a normal pace. 

"Now", Madam Pomfrey encouraged him in a professional, clinical tone, "what seems to be the problem?"

"You are bound by confidentiality, correct? Not even Professor Umbridge can make you talk about your patients?"

She smiled at him, though worry shone in her brown eyes. "Yes, Mr Potter. Whatever you tell me shall be between the two of us, unless you wish for me to share it."

 _These are just scars_ , Harry lied to himself, _they will make no difference to her._ The fabric of his sleeve felt rough beneath his fingers, when he gripped it tightly, as though it was a lifeline. He averted his gaze, unable to face the healer, while he slowly pulled the shirt up. Beneath, the skin was adorned by an irregular pattern of crisscrossing scars. Compared to his forearms a month prior, these were only a fraction, not nearly as numerous or repulsive. Yet, they made him feel ashamed.

He heard the sharp intake of breath, knew that at this very moment, Madame Pomfrey's eyes were widened with disbelief. How could the saviour of the Wizarding World, the boy who fought for his survival time and time again, indulge in such a harmful activity? What were the reasons behind his self-harm, when objectively, Harry Potter possessed everything a teenager could wish for? Money, Fame, Friends...

On the heels of her incredulity would follow disgust. He could not bear facing the woman, who's lips were surely pulled into a sneer. Any moment now, harmful words would spill from her lips, asking him why he was so pathetic, so inconsiderate. She would-

"Thank you for showing me, Mr Potter. I know this must take a lot of courage." Her voice sounded _soft_.

Harry's eyes shot to her, searching for traces of revulsion, hatred or even pity. There were none. Instead, her smile seemed genuine, understanding. 

"I will not ask for your reasons", she murmured, "as I am certain, that you are unwilling to disclose those at the moment. However, know this, Mr Potter, you are not the first student to struggle with such things, nor will you be the last. As a school, we offer counselling sessions with either faculty members or professional therapists, depending on your preferences and monetary resources. Everything will be strictly confidential."

"It's getting better", he whispered meekly, pulling the fabric back over his scars. He felt less vulnerable once the sleeve fell past his wrist.

Poppy Pomfrey regarded him with an inscrutable look, before insisting: "Nevertheless, these options are available, should you need them. I cannot force you to accept our help, though I would strongly advise you to."

"Thank you. I will think about it."

He could not accept help. What should he say to a therapist? _'I have seen my friends and family die in a war that has yet to happen. Then I committed suicide and travelled back into my fifteen-year-old body. Maybe you can help me?'_ Unlikely.

"Mr Potter, if I may ask, what caused you to come here tonight? You seem to have everything figured out, unwilling to ask for help." There was no judgement audible in her voice, which came as a surprise to him.

"I-", Harry hesitated. What repercussions would there be if he admitted the cruelty of Umbridge's detentions? Would the matron's attempt to save him end in her dismissal? At present, aiding him seemed to come with serious repercussions. Did his attempt at a new, better life truly warrant the destruction of another? Perhaps he should simply endure the well-deserved punishment.

"Nevermind, I-", he began, standing from his seat.

"Sit down", Madame Pomfrey snapped with unknown sharpness in her voice. Perplexed, he stared at her for several moments, before sinking back into the semi-comfortable chair. "Now, I have dealt with enough rebellious, self-righteous students in my lifetime to know that the reason for your confession is a serious one. You did not seek help earlier, despite deciding to get well. Something happened now, which makes you doubt your ability to move forward. You will tell me what happened and you will do so now."

Madame Pomfrey was known for her relentlessness whenever students were concerned. Such a fierceness could only be rivalled by Professor McGonagall's protectiveness of Gryffindors. Yet, it took Harry aback. He had forgotten her reputation, had been fooled by the kind, understanding words. 

In his astonishment, for once the words left his mouth freely: "I have detention with Professor Umbridge in the following weeks for running out of her classroom. Her detentions are somewhat _unconventional_ , for the lack of better words."

He could feel the bitterness of his own words polluting his mouth. The witch's eyes darken, as understanding dawns upon her. 

"Yes", she nods, acid coating her words, "several students came to me with _unconventional_ injuries. Admittedly, I am powerless against Dolores Umbridge, especially as she has the Minister's full support. However, my oath as a healer and to the school permits me to intervene, should a student's health be endangered. Here, this certainly is the case. I will not lie to you, it will be difficult, more so as I doubt your willingness to reveal your troubles to anyone else. But, I will help you and if it's the last thing I do."

She _cared_. The witch looked at him with fierce protectiveness and soothing understanding. She offered to help him, to protect him, when he could not do so himself. To her, it did not matter that she painted a target on her back by aiding Harry. 

"Thank you", Harry whispered, voice breaking on unshed tears. 

***

It was better from there onwards. Madame Pomfrey urged him to accept help through the school, although she did not press harder than necessary. Harry declined, uncertain of what he could even say, concerning his issues. Even to the wizarding community, time-travel and body-swap seemed absurd. 

Thankfully, his detention with Umbridge had been delegated to Filch, who made the teen scrub every nook and cranny of the sixth floor without magic. The manual labour was a welcome, if unpleasant distraction and certainly preferable to carving words into his flesh with an enchanted quill. He felt strangely at peace, whenever he returned to the Gryffindor common room with red hands, covered in blisters. Ron and Hermione gave him sympathetic glances, though they understood that anything was better than detention with Umbridge. 

Needless to say, the pink devil's glares wished hellfire and death upon him, whenever even a single hair was out of place. Considering Harry's unruly mop, it was constantly. Points were deducted in ruthless spite and even though she would never resemble Snape's bias, the missing points hurt the Gryffindor house placement. At present, they were dead last. These days, Professor McGonagall could be seen with a permanent frown upon her face, while the resident Potions Master looked as though Christmas had come early.

Snape and Harry continued their remedial Potions lessons, to the older wizard's chagrin. With time, an interesting ritual developed, during which the latter would attempt to brew, while the former would perform ruthless attacks at his mind. It ended with the Professor sitting at his desk, skin white as chalk and sweat dripping from his brow. More than once, as a result of his distractions, Harry's cauldron blew up, leaving him with minor burns and scratches.

Amusingly, time seemed to both crawl and fly, when it came to school. The lessons themselves were boring, dragging on endlessly, filled with familiar, forgotten knowledge, most of which was useless in the face of death. However, when it came to studying and homework, one never had enough time to complete all tasks. Accompanied by his increasing number of runs, Harry truly felt the pressure of his OWLs, even though he had already taken them once before. 

It, therefore, came as little of a surprise to find the Hogsmead weekend on Valentine's day approaching rapidly. Fudge had eagerly accepted Harry's invitation. The minister was probably hoping for a retraction of previous statements, in addition to further material to slander Albus Dumbledore. How very disappointed he would be. 

When Harry stepped into the Three Broomsticks at quarter to two, the expected image of Hermione, Luna and Rita Skeeter greeted him. The three witches sat at a small table in the back of the overflowing room. The way the older two's eyes were narrowed and their fingers clutched their respective beverages spoke of tension. Luna, however, seemed as unfazed as ever, her eyes gazing into the air at an image only visible to her. The brunette's face lit up, as she caught sight of Harry, waving him over with an enthusiastic gesture.

He had foregone spending the morning at the village under the pretence of pressing homework. In reality, however, the teen had simply needed a break. He had sat on top of the Astronomy tower, enjoying the way the biting wind pulled at his hair. It had been a freeing, relaxing experience, allowing him to collect his thoughts. He would be able to go into this meeting with a clear head. 

"Harry Potter", the retired journalist greeted with a venomous smile, "what an honour it is to meet you again." Sarcasm dripped off her words.

"Likewise." His grin held too many teeth, was too wide. _Two could play this game._

"Hello, Harry", Luna spoke absentmindedly, "you should beware of the Nargle infestation. They love troubled minds."

Hermione and Rita threw odd looks at the young girl, who seemed blissfully unaware of the hostility of the world. In a way, Harry admired the girl for her ability to simply _be_. She had been the first one to truly _live_ after the war. Despite her captivity and the nightmares that came with it, Luna Lovegood gave the Wizarding World a cheerful smile and took a step forward. The others followed. All but Harry.

"Hello, Luna", he answered with a genuine smile. The girl would never change, not for war, nor time. She was ageless, untouchable.

"Harry, I invited Rita to conduct an interview-", Hermione began.

The dark-haired teen cut her off carefully: "I hope you don't mind, Hermione, but I actually invited someone as well. He should be here soon. I thought he might be interested in what I have to say, concerning various allegations in the past year."

Hermione blushed, fingers twitching nervously. "You... _invited someone_?"

The unspoken implication hung heavily in the air. _Did you invite your sweetheart?_ Rita Skeeter was sure to love any gossip on his sexuality.

With a sigh, Harry shook his head: "Yes, I invited someone. No, it was not meant in _that_ way."

Bearing frightening similarities to a shark smelling blood, the blonde journalist perked up: "Is this what Little Miss Perfect wanted me to write about? This could definitively make for a good headline. _Harry Potter: heartbreaker on both sides of the spectrum._ Perhaps you could reveal some details about your relationship with Cedric Diggory? Top or Bottom?"

"That is demeaning, bigoted, and absolutely not the type of article I expect you to write", Hermione hissed through clenched teeth. 

"Power bottom", Harry interjected with a conspirational wink. A lie, once more, meant to hide his wariness and inexperience behind a broad grin and amusement. He did not have enough sexual encounters with his own sex to make preferences. With any gender, for that matter. 

A slow, appreciative smile stretched itself over the journalist's face, while Hermione blushed furiously. Luna, on the other hand, stared at the label of her butterbeer, either unaware or uncaring of the situation at hand. 

"Though I agree with Hermione", Harry nodded at his friend, "this is not the kind of article I expect to be published. Perhaps we should wait until my guest arrives to discuss further matters, such as printing, and wording."

Thankfully, they did not have to wait long for Fudge to step through the door, accompanied by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Rufus Scrimgeour. Given past encounters with the present Head of the Auror Department, the sable-haired teen disliked the man, though he was, admittedly, a good Auror. _The irony_ , Harry thought with a dry sense of humour, as the three men approached their table. He was in the presence of three of Great Britain's Ministers for Magic.

He could literally feel Hermione's prodding glares against the side of his head, as she was scolding him for retaining such an important piece of information from her. With a forced smile, he stood, extending his hand for the current Minister to shake.

"Minister Fudge. It's an honour", he lied through his teeth. 

"Mr Potter", was the simple greeting. 

Harry glanced at the two Aurors: "Auror Shacklebolt, Auror Scrimgeour. Why don't we take a seat?"

Minutes later, a group of different backgrounds with warring interest sat at the tiny table, sizing up one another. What an odd picture they made. The Minister, the Boy-Who-Lived, two students, a reporter, and two Aurors - one of which was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Furtive glances were directed their way, as the other patron's attempted to constitute the reason for such a gathering. Madame Rosmerta seemed especially flustered, serving all of them a beverage on the house.

 _Time to play_.

"Minister", Harry finally began once they were all seated and sure not to be interrupted, "these are my close friends Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood, whose father heads the _Quibbler_. I assume you're familiar with Mrs Skeeter?"

"Certainly", the man acknowledged, suspicion and curiosity etched upon his face. 

"Excellent. I asked you here in order to discuss certain allegations of the past year. This-" Harry brought forth a vial, filled with a silvery substance, "-is my recollection of the occurrences during the third task, including Voldemort's resurrection. I'm assuming you own a Pensieve?"

Abruptly, yet not unexpectedly, Fudge stood, his chair scratching loudly against the floor. His dull eyes were ablaze with fury, eyebrows knitting together. He was the epitome of a man confronted with an unpleasant truth. 

"How dare you spout such lies in public?", the Minister seethed, "I don't know what concocted plan you and Dumbledore came up with, but this fear-mongering will not work on the community!"

He turned to leave when Harry interrupted with a calm voice: "Did you know that defamation of character is a crime? Especially when it concerns a minor."

The man tensed, his shoulderblades drawing together. "What exactly are you implying?" The hiss was dangerously low.

"There are two ways this can go", the teen explained, "if you truly think that Cedric Diggory's death was nothing more than a tragic accident, then turn around and walk away. Mrs Skeeter will write an article favouring my side of these events, published in the Quibbler. We will likely see each other in court when I accuse you of defamation. It will be insubstantial if I truly am a liar, who wants nothing more than end your career in favour of Dumbledore. Alas, by then, the damage to your career will be done. However, if there is even a shred of doubt in your mind, you will do well to sit down and listen."

The hesitation was palpable, as Fudge's eyes flickered between the four of them. Mentally, he weighed the benefits against the consequences, judging whether or not Harry made empty threats. Finally, it was a subtle nod on Scrimgeour's part, which influenced the Minister's decision. Carefully composed, he took his seat once more, his muscles just a tad stiffer than at the beginning of this meeting.

"Good", Harry nodded with a strained smile, "As I said, this is my memory of the occurrences last year, which-"

Fudge interrupted him, a calculating look upon his features: "How do I know that it hasn't been tampered with?"

"I am certain that a team of Unspeakables will be able to ensure it's legitimacy. Should you, however, have further doubts, I am willing to subject myself to proper Ministry questioning procedure, including the use of Veritaserum, in presence of a lawyer."

Narrowed eyes met his, the man's mouth drawn into a thin line: "Assuming your _tale_ bears any truth, what do you plan to do?" The man weighed the risks of admitting his lies of the past year. 

Wearing a sharp smile, Harry elaborated: "I will, of course, not press charges. Neither will Professor Dumbledore. Mrs Skeeter will write an article about formidable cooperation between the Boy-Who-Lived and the Minister against a common enemy, painting you in a better light. The infiltration of Death Eaters into the Ministry made it impossible for you to publicly acknowledge Lord Voldemort's return, as you were waiting for sufficient evidence to convict them."

"Yet there is neither evidence nor Death Eaters", the wizard opposite of him states, sharpness in his gaze.

"Ah, but there is", this time, his grin was real, though it displayed too many teeth, "You see, this memory contains enough evidence to launch an investigation into certain Ministry workers. Without a doubt, you will be able to convict some of them."

A quick glance around the table revealed impressed looks from Kingsley and Skeeter. Scrimgeour wore an impenetrable mask, whereas Hermione regarded him with suspicion. Luna appeared to have left the conversation some time ago.

"I will not lie to you", the sable-haired teen continued, "your re-election is unlikely. The public doubts your credibility, especially following the explanation for the Azkaban breakout. However, should you cooperate with me, you will not go down in history as the man who let Lord Voldemort fester within his administration."

"Alright", the Minister agreed, extending his hand to grasp the vial containing the memory, "I will look into the credibility of your statements. Should they prove useful, I will send you an owl with further information regarding possible interrogations."

It was not an agreement, Harry was smart enough to understand as much. Instead, it was a willingness to listen, to contemplate Harry's threats and act accordingly. Yet, it was enough. Sooner, rather than later, the return of Lord Voldemort would be public knowledge, without the price of his godfather's life. 

Together with Fudge and the two Aurors, the teen stood. They shook hands. "Thank you for your cooperation, Minister. Have a good day. Auror Scrimgeour, Auror Shacklebolt."

"Mr Potter", was the Minister's dismissive answer, before he turned on his heels, heading towards the door, clutching the vial like a lifeline. 

"Skeeter", Harry turned towards the blonde woman, "I will owl you the details of what I require in that article as soon as they are clear. Thank you for your _willingness_ to write such a controversial piece."

"Then my work here is done", she smiled sharply, "unless you wish me to write that piece on your relationship with the late Cedric Diggory?"

"Not necessary."

The journalist followed the Ministry officials out of the door with a last curious glare directed at the teenagers. An awkward silence hung over their small table until the door swung shut behind the blonde.

It was then, that Hermione began her inquiry: "How did you know that I would meet with her today? I purposefully didn't mention it to you or Ron, given your history with keeping your mouths shut."

Bitterness welled up in his chest, clenching his heart. At the moment Hermione considered a million different hypothesis, each wilder than the previous, in order to understand his seeming omniscience. Yet, even after all these possibilities, the truth would never come to her mind, as it was simply too absurd. _I travelled back in time and I'm trying to save all of you from a devastating war_. The confession lay on the tip of his tongue, yearning to break free. His friends deserved the truth. Yet, they would never be able to understand it, especially not the logical brunette. Not when even Harry could barely believe it, much less understand.

"A hunch", he answered instead, forcing himself to grin, "after the article was published, you seemed so intent of bettering the situation. There were little possibilities with which you would have been able to make a relevant impact. Rita was one of them."

Logic had always been the key to erasing his friend's worries. Even now, he saw the suspicion slide off her face, only to be replaced with joy and relief. His next smile was genuine.

"You handled that brilliantly", she admitted, "I would never have thought of involving Fudge directly."

"Thank you."

The three of them talked for at least an hour before Harry excused himself. Once he was alone, the tension abruptly left his body, leaving his knees weak and fingers shaking. 

He had made his first move. It was Voldemort's turn now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's incredibly difficult to talk about issues to someone else. I hope I described the inner conflict well enough. Basically, Harry is more willing (?) to talk about it, because it will, in the end, help his friends and family.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, comments are always appreciated :)


	6. Guilty All The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort is possessive af and likes to monologue. Dream sharing/Mind sharing.
> 
> Seen and Unforeseen (1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,   
> I watched the show 'Nanette' by Hannah Gadsby a few days ago. It is such an inspirational work, that I really want everyone to see it. It's on Netflix and 1 hour long. The quote is out of that show.
> 
> Also: so sorry for the slow update, but I started watching Hannibal and I am in love with Hannigram at the moment. If anyone knows any good fanfics, please let me know :)

_"When you soak a child in shame, they cannot develop the neurological pathways that carry thoughts of self-worth. Self-hatred is only ever a seed planted from outside, but when you do that to a child, it grows a weed so thick, the child doesn't know any different. It becomes as natural as gravity." - Hannah Gadsby_

It took Dumbledore two days to reach out to Harry through a trembling first-year Hufflepuff carrying a scroll. If he was honest, the teen would have expected to be called upon sooner. Even though the headmaster had not reacted to the interview he had conducted in the _other_ life, the man could hardly ignore public cooperation with the party attempting to overtake Hogwarts from within. 

Harry disliked the Ministry - the inarguable corruption and ignorance - yet, he was aware of the dangers its hostility represented. With a common enemy at hand, he certainly would be able to burry the figurative hatchet and disregard their past misconduct. Lord Voldemort was a danger to the public, especially to those the teen called his family. 

So it happened, that the sable-haired wizard found himself in the headmaster's office on Monday evening, following dinner that night. The circular room appeared timeless, which was oddly comforting within such a chaotic world. Even Harry's designated chair was the same as he knew it, positioned opposite of Dumbledore's desk, with his back to the door. However, it was the first time that his limited view of possible exits made him uncomfortable in the man's presence. 

"Harry", the older wizard began, his wrinkled hands folded atop the wooden surface, "Would you care for a lemon drop?"

His attention was directed to a silver bowl before him, filled with individually wrapped, yellow sweets. A nostalgic smile graced his lips, as he reached for one of them, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. 

"Thanks", he muttered through the acidic taste exploding upon his tongue. 

"Not a problem", twinkling, blue eyes, a genuine smile, "Now, Kingsley informed me of a recent meeting with a certain acquaintance of yours." The plea to elaborate was unspoken.

"I met with Minister Fudge at the Three Broomsticks. Hermione invited Rita Skeeter to the table", he disclosed, uncertain of what the man wished to know. He had likely obtained the memories from Shacklebolt.

"Why did you instigate such a meeting?", carefully chosen words, spoken without anger, merely curiosity. 

Harry paused, wondering how much truth to weave into his story. The old wizard had the unsettling ability to recognise lies spoken before him. He already suspected Harry to be possessed by the Dark Lord. Or unstable. Or both. 

Finally, he explained: "Eventually, the general public will acknowledge Voldemort's return - it's inevitable. The question is, how many lives will it take for the ministry to pull their heads out of the sand. Cedric died because we were in denial, not vigilant enough to recognize the plot before our eyes. To be honest, I feel guilty for his death. Had I not asked him to take the cup with me-" He broke off, fingers trembling. 

Blood seemed to coat his hands, impossible to be wiped away by his trousers. He turned his gaze to the headmaster, ignoring the impressions of blood against his skin. 

"We are often plagued by nightmares of tragedies we ascribe to our own consciousness", Dumbledore gently spoke, an odd lethargy in his voice. "Know that you are at no fault here. It was our responsibility to keep Mr Diggory safe. Nobody expected heroic deeds from you, especially not, as you were fourteen at the time."

A shadow of something familiar, yet strange flitted across the man's features, and Harry understood. He knew the monster named guilt tainting thoughts and emotions with despairing intimacy, allowing him to recognise it in others. 

_Don't hurt them! Hurt me instead!_

He had been there when Albus Dumbledore, tortured by a potion, had been brought back to the worst day of his life - the death of his sister. Even decades later, with more accomplishments than he could count, the man had been unable to outrun his sins. 

What a pair they made. Two men, who were responsible for the deaths of those they cared for. 

Yet, arguably, the headmaster had a worse fate. A dead sister, a brother who despised him, and undying love for a man who waged war with the wizarding world and slaughtered thousands. Harry may have mixed feelings concerning the man, but it did not stop him from feeling sympathy for Albus Dumbledore, who surrounded himself with people, even though he knew they could never fill the void left behind from his childhood days. 

"I know", the younger wizard whispered, averting his gaze. "I just don't want to risk any more deaths. If there is any path I can take, which could potentially save lives, I will take it."

"Understandable", Dumbledore quirked his lips, "though I must ask you to inform me of any future endeavours, so that I may help to the best of my abilities."

"Of course." They both knew it was a lie. The man would not be able to help him without posing questions, which Harry would be unable to answer.

"Run along, then", was the dismissal, "I believe curfew draws closer."

With a final smile, the teen stood. At the door, however, Harry hesitated. His fingers brushed the cool metal of the doorknob, grip faltering before he could close it behind himself. As he looked back, he caught the shadow of grief and guilt upon his headmaster's features. The bright, blue eyes were dimmed, glistening with unshed tears. It was not an image meant for him, nor should he linger in the doorway. Yet, as he remembered the confessions spoken at King's Cross Station when the world had been drenched in white. 

"Professor", he began, causing the man to compose himself in the blink of an instant. Their eyes met, a careful contemplation on both parts. 

"Yes, Harry?", Dumbledore prompted, as Harry did not elaborate. His voice was as gentle as ever. 

"Did you ever hear the story of the Nodding Tiger?"

"I cannot say that I have."

With every passing second, the agony of loss seeped back behind the cheerful smile the headmaster was known for. Harry knew it was part of a mask - an elaborate coping mechanism to cope with the weight upon his shoulders. A guilt Harry was all too familiar with. 

"It is a very enlightening story, which one only benefits from, should one read it. The muggle fairy tale originated from China. In it, a tiger kills an old woman's son. However, in the end, despite the tiger's horrendous deeds, she learns to love him", Harry explains, heart beating faster at the danger of such an open insinuation. 

There is a glint of realization behind the half-moon spectacles. Understanding that the teenager before him knew parts of a story he should never have heard of. Fingers clenching around the desk were the only physical manifestation of surprise and fear. 

"It teaches us that love can blossom in the most unlikely instances. Forgiveness for even the most gruesome deeds can be given." Harry paused briefly, before turning away, finally exiting the office. "Good evening, Professor."

He did not await a reply. 

*

The Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff approached rapidly. It brought with it a temporary distraction from the dull, snowy days and endless classes. Alas, the atmosphere within the common room grew tenser, the closer the game. The Quidditch team, discouraged by abysmal practices and Ron's continuous inability to make a single catch, spread negativity and anger throughout their house. 

Ron was as cranky as always when faced with his own shortcomings. After he snapped at both Harry and Hermione for the fifth time, the two of them began avoiding him in the aftermath of field practices. It worked well enough, even though the sable-haired wizard felt bad, as he remembered all the instances in which the redhead stood by his side when depression struck. However, their friend needed his space, so they gave it to him. 

The day before the match, Madame Pomfrey cornered him. Well, she did not as much corner him, but prevent his exit, after he handed in the weekly calory-counting sheet. Without his consent, the medi-witch ushered him into her office, where two cups of tea - chamomille, this time - stood, accompanied by biscuits. 

"Mr Potter", she opened, once both of them were seated, "how are you feeling."

He shrugged in response: "Alright, I guess."

A frown adorned her features, though she chose to take a sip of her tea, instead of admonishing him. Harry nibbled at one of the cinnamon stars, enjoying the explosion of flavour upon his tongue, even though Christmas had long passed. 

"What have you been up to lately?", she finally asked, surprising him with her attempt at small talk. However, his eyes narrowed, as understanding dawned.

"Is this supposed to be an incognito therapy session?" 

A smile. "Do you mind?"

He paused for several seconds, contemplating, before finally relinquishing: "Not yet."

Madame Pomfrey was a warm, motherly woman, even though she could be stern, where her patients were concerned. In a certain way, she reminded him of Mrs Weasley. She would not be able to truly help him - not when he was unable to tell her of his issues and guilt. Yet, he enjoyed the conversations with her, the way she spoke straightforwardly with refreshing honesty. 

"So", she prompted once more, "How have you been?"

"Could be better", he admitted, "I still struggle to get up in the morning."

"What do you do to overcome this obstacle?", she questioned, while adding a generous amount of honey to her tea.

"I set myself goals for the day. Mentally, I go through my planner, counting every lesson and task to complete for the day. Homework, conversations, things like that. Structure helps, surprisingly - I would have never thought of myself as an organised person." He grinned at the last statement. Both of them knew it was an attempt to mask the vulnerability with humour, neither mentioned it.

"Do you see conversing with your friends as a task?", she queried and Harry was suddenly very grateful for the fact that she did not take notes. 

He fiddled with the handle of his cup for several seconds, searching for a way to escape the question. When no rescue seemed to be in sight, he answered carefully: "It sometimes feels like they don't know me. They still treat me as if I'm the same person I was before-", he broke off.

"You feel trapped in their perception of you", Madame Pomfrey gave him an understanding nod. "As though you have a role to play to them."

It was surprising how well she had surmised his situation, although she only knew a fraction of the truth.

"I don't always mind. Sometimes I enjoy being normal. But there are som many roles I am expected to play, that it is exhausting to do the same before the two people in the world, who should know me the best. I don't know what to say to them anymore, don't know which words to make them laugh, which actions to take to show them I care. Sometimes I am scared that they feel too much like familiar strangers."

Harry set his cup down, unwilling to spill any tea because of his trembling fingers. He knew he had said too much. Yet, her understanding had opened the flood gates to his thoughts, forcing confessions out of him in an endless string. 

"Do you think they would accept you if you told them your thoughts, your worries, your dreams? If they knew you as you are now, do you think they would love you, Mr Potter?" Her question was meant well, though she did not help him - not when he could never tell anyone about his future and past.

"They would accept me", he slowly answered, "but they would never understand. And if I am honest with myself, I don't expect them to."

The two of them had a formidable future ahead of them. They did not need Harry to taint it with his darkness. 

*

_Snow falling atop the misty mountains held an eerie peacefulness to it, remnants of quiet nights and solitude. His gaze reached barely more than a couple of feet, allowing a picture of ice, snow, and grey stone to form before his eyes. The white fields that made up his vision reminded him of Dumbledore's beard, a fleeting memory of death and limbo. Though it was freezing, especially considering the lack of appropriate clothing, Harry did no longer feel the low temperatures, too caught up in his own thoughts of misery._

_What was life?_

_Some interpretations depicted it as part of an infinite journey, merely a fragment of what his soul would experience with time. His old headmaster had called death the 'next great adventure', something to be cherished and awaited. Harry enjoyed this train of thought - the possibility of a better existence, once his heart ceased beating and his lungs stopped breathing. Family, friendship, and love were things he desperately prayed for in his future._

_However, others thought of life as a singular occurrence, as the only available time. Lord Voldemort had feared death because, in his mind, there was no future for the dead - no power, no magic. Perhaps it was the ordinary that the Dark Lord feared, the lack of individuality, the possibility of forgotten names and achievements, and lost legacies. 'Death comes equally to us all and makes us all equal when it comes', John Donne had once said. For one who valued himself, being as all others would surely appear a frightening prospect._

_Yet, no matter the future, Harry Potter knew that what followed death would undoubtedly be a blessing in comparison to his present. There would be no more loneliness, nor guilt. Nobody would hold high expectations towards him, begging for help and salvation. He would finally be able to leave the shadow of the person the public had shaped him to be, would be able to be simply_ Harry _. He could be a victim, a grieving survivor, a scarred man._

_It was, therefore, that the sensation of blood and life leaving his body in the slow, pulsating rhythm of his heartbeat, did not induce terror within him. His breath came easier, lungs free of the oppressive weight of a bloody war, the price of which had been too high. The thoughts in his head were muted, sounding like from behind a veil. Though he could no longer feel the warm trickle against his wrists, the skin numb and frostbitten, he knew that not much time remained._

_The sound of snow crunching beneath approaching footfalls pierced through the fog within his head, bringing slithers of clarity with it, bearing the semblance of rays of sunlight. Yet, Harry did not shift his unfocused gaze away from the wide sky above him, too tired and too heavy to regain awareness of the present. He barely registered the sudden stop of the person in his vicinity._

_"Harry Potter", the words barely more than a whisper, spoken on a breath out._

_The way his name was said, the reverence and hate vibrating through every syllable, sounded an alarm within the depths of his consciousness. An old, forgotten urge to flee woke inside him, begging him to stand and fight. He did not have the strength to even look at the speaker, his eyelids fluttering close instead._

_Warm fingers brushed against his wrist, following the deep incision displayed upon the pale flesh. To his frozen limbs, it felt like fire burning him, charring his skin. Perhaps Hermione had found him? Or was it Ron, who had followed him into the high peaks of the Alps in a desperate attempt to save him from his own despair? It bore little importance now. He was too far gone, too close to death, to freedom. They would not be able to chain him to this damned existence any longer._

_"Is this how the prophesized saviour sees himself?", the voice mocked, though there was something hidden deep beneath the derision, buried. "Do you yearn for death? Does my return cause such fear to blossom in your heart?"_

_Harry's tired mind saught to supply a name to the presence beside him, metaphorical wheels spinning helplessly in an attempt to pierce the veil atop his consciousness._

_"Such weakness", the truth of those cruel and cold words pained the teen, "just like your parents. Did you know I killed them within_ minutes _? I saw you lying in that crib and I could not comprehend how fate could give me such a_ pathetic _adversary. A skull so weak, I could have crushed it with my bare hands. How glorious your blood would have looked, splattered across the walls of that disgusting nursery. It was my mistake to honour your prophesized power, to believe for even an instant that your power could rival mine. A simple death is too good for you, Harry Potter. You deserve pain and suffering, ten years of it for every second I spent without a body."_

Voldemort. _The name resounded behind his eyelids, a frantic repetition of syllables, growing louder and louder. Over and over, as he struggled to comprehend the consequences of such information. The Dark Lord was_ dead. _He had been killed in a vast hall, the ruins of which were a testament to a bloody battle. How could he still haunt his dreams from far beyond the grave?_

_The nagging feeling of having forgotten vital information resounded in the back of his head, an itch he could not scratch._

_Long fingers brushed his throat, the sensation hauntingly familiar, even though it was diminished by snow and cold skin. Adrenaline shot through his veins - a natural reaction to a predator's claws close to his jugular. Yet, Harry could not open his eyes, as his lids were leaden with bloodloss and cold. A part of him wondered, how he could still cling to consciousness when he should be dead by now._

_Abruptly, fingers closed around his throat, cutting off his shallow breath. Sharp nails dug into the soft flesh of his neck, deep enough to tear skin apart and ingrain themselves into the very matter of his being. Despite his exhaustion and self-destructiveness, the lack of air caused him to panic, fingers twitching. Harry wished he was alive enough to push the murderer of him, while simultaneously begging for the sweet release of death. Survival instinct fought a vicious war with his perception of the world, even though there was no point in this dilemma. It was too late for the boy - his decisions had been made, his blood spilt._

_"Make no mistake", hot breath against his ear, a whisper resembling a scream in the eerie silence of the mountains, "your pain, your blood, your_ _life are_ mine _. I will be the one to make you_ beg _for death, just as I will be the one to end your pathetic existence. What pleasure will await me, as I watch your worthless lungs draw their final breath, your weak heart struggle to keep you alive, as you succumb to pain and nothingness._ _Your end is near, Harry_ _."_

A scream tore through the night, filled to the brim with horror and agony. Tingling vocal cords indicated that it was his own, though Harry could not remember giving his body the permission to act. Darkness filled his vision and for a brief, hopeful moment, he thought death to have finally come knocking - to have taken his hand and guided him onwards. His hopes were shattered by the pain in his throat. 

It took him an agonizingly long amount of time to remember his whereabouts. Sweat soaked his sheets, cooling his skin to an uncomfortable temperature, reminiscent of his dream. His head felt heavy, as his eyes focused upon his surroundings. Scattered flecks of moonlight shone through gaps within his curtains, turning the dark red into dripping pools of shimmering blood. Harry shivered, bile rising in his throat. 

Had the dream merely been a fragment of his imagination - an underlying fear given life by his subconsciousness? Or had Voldemort sought him out in his mind in another attempt at manipulation? Since Cedric's death, in a different lifetime, nightmares of the pale-faced demon had tortured him on a regular basis. With his declining mental health, their frequency had increased, until cruel, red eyes stared back at him from every shadow. Yet, this had felt different. Harry could still feel the sting of sharp nails against his skin, a ghosting breath beside his ear, as threats were whispered in an almost affectionate manner. 

Undeniably, Lord Voldemort had come to haunt him, to bind them closer still. Their destinies entwined irreversibly with every time their consciousnesses merged. He could barely distinguish between his own emotions and the others, their souls tied to one another by despicable magic. Hate, revenge, and fear drove the two of them to unknown lengths. 

Slowly, with shaking limbs, Harry sat up in his damp sheets, fingers burying in his hair - a gesture of despair. Not for the first time, the teen thanked the inventor of the silencing charm for the continuation of his dorm mates' peaceful slumber, their unawareness of the nightmares plaguing him. 

His legs were unsteady, barely able to support his full weight, as he stood up in order to make his way towards the bathroom. His journey led him past Ron, whose snores resembled sounds found in the depths of hell, and Seamus, who mumbled some unintelligible words, one of which Harry strongly assumed to be Snape. 

Inside the dimly lit bathroom, the boy's hands clutched the porcelain sink, admiring the way veins and tendons stuck out from the force behind his grip. Hair - too long and too unkempt - fell into his face, sticking to his sweaty forehead. Through the curtain of his hair, Harry caught a glimpse of his reflection within the mirror above the sink.

A stranger stared back at him, grief written across his face. It was there, settled in in the depths of his eyes, etched into the curve of his lips. Through the guise of Harry Potter, a broken man shone through, a man who had lived through war and loss, who could no longer bear the weight of this world. Never before had he felt less like himself - as though the body did not truly belong to him. He was merely an imposter, stealing the life and future of a child. 

_Is this how the prophesized saviour sees himself?_ Voldemort had intended to taunt him with his condescension. Yet, he could not help but see the truth of those words. The body he wore around him was a mask - an old and tattered suit, which came apart at the seams, allowing dark thoughts to seep to the surface. 

The long and messy hair had been appropriate to his self-identification, throughout his youth. They had been a tie to his father, his family - a tangent proof that he had ancestors, who passed traits to him. Infuriating aunt Petunia and her compulsion for normalcy had merely been an added bonus. 

However, he did not deserve this reassurance and familiarity in the slightest. James Potter had been a hero; a man who gave his life in defence of his family, who stood proudly against the Dark Lord, even as the scales of the Wizarding War tipped in his enemy's favour. Harry was nothing but an imposter. He had caused the death of all those he should have protected, had fled across the country, while others fought the war, that should have been his to fight. 

Fingers pulled at the cursed hair, tearing at the strands until pain flashed white-hot in his skull. Out of the corners of his field of view, dead eyes glared back at him. Tonks, Lupin, Sirius, Cedric, Fred- 

_'This is your fault'_ , they seemed to whisper, _'we are dead because of you.'_

Guilt gnawed at his heart, as its pace picked up until it beat frantically against the cage keeping it trapped. His fingers were trembling as he lifted them to his face. He could no longer bear to look at his reflection, too disgusted by himself. So many deaths had been brought about by him - by his mistakes and deficiencies. How could he be here, hidden in a body that was no longer his, accepting the love his friends and family gave him when association with him would bring them such misery in the future?

The urge to cut, to punish, to mutilate was overwhelming, his will to fight crumbling in response. 

_'Guilty'_ , the voices in his head whispered with sharp tongues and judgemental inflexions.

_Guilty._

_Guilty._

_Guilty._

He must have blacked out, as the next thing he was aware of, was the familiar weight of his wand resting within his palm. The wood was smooth against his calloused skin, a soothing sensation to his unbalanced mind. It's tip rested against the flesh of his left forearm, between two silvery scars. Casting the familiar spell would be so simple. The wand movements and pronunciation were ingrained within his mind, printed on the inside of his eyelids. The wording lay heavy on his tongue, tingling in the back of his throat, yearning to be spoken. 

_Such weakness._ Lord Voldemort's voice whispered, as cruel and derisive as ever. It was true, wasn't it? Harry was weak, unworthy of his heritage, his magic, and the House of Gryffindor. Despite his shortcomings, fate had granted him a second chance - an opportunity to rewrite the blood-soaked history that he had left behind. Yet, he could not even do such a task, could not combat his demons in order to save those he loved. They had readily given their lives for him and he could not even live for them. _Pathetic_. 

No- Not any more. Harry would be strong for them. It was his duty, his responsibility. 

Lowering his wand took an extraordinary amount of will-power, almost too much. But as he looked upon the clean skin, free of beautifully gruesome red, a sense of victory overcame him. It felt as though he had made a leap into the right direction, moving forward towards salvation.

*

The following morning, the Daily Prophet brought with it the announcement of the beginning investigation of the occurrences concerning the Triwizard Tournament. A picture of Harry, covered in dirt and grime, with tears coating his cheeks, stretched itself over the front page. In his arm, Cedric lay, eyes opened wide, fear forever etched into the unseeing orbs. Above, the headline announced: _'Pending Investigation of Cedric Diggory's death'._

Harry's stomach churned at the picture, the back of his throat burning. In the photograph, which seemed to have been taken a life-time ago, his younger self clutched to a fellow student's corpse, beginning to comprehend the inhumanity of the world. Whoever had taken it had done an excellent job at capturing the exact moment, in which childhood naivety fell apart, replaced by suffering.

The article itself was well-written. One could say what they wished about Rita Skeeter, but it was undeniable that she knew the art of journalism. Within the pages, the story of a traumatised boy, who had been unable to speak to the authorities about such horrendous events, was told. She depicted a meeting between Harry Potter and Cornelius Fudge, during which the Minister took pity upon the child, agreeing to begin an investigation to bring Cedric justice. Fudge had been painted in a good light, which came as little a surprise, considering his influence about the newspaper. However, Harry found that he did not mind being described as vulnerable or unstable, as the benefits outweighed his pride by far.

Soon, the whispers picked up. One by one, the students threw glances at him, speaking in hushed whispers. Rumours began circulating, which would surely be disproportionate by the end of the day. Hermione and Ron, who were amongst the few who knew about the meeting at the Three Broomsticks, were grinning at him.

"This is good", Hermione evaluated. "This is very good."

A glance at the head table revealed strongly mixed feelings. While Dumbledore gave him a wink, accompanied by his omniscient smile, Umbridge seemed to intend for her glare to corrode his flesh. It appeared as though she would always detest him, whether he cooperated with the Ministry or actively rebelled against it. Some things never changed. 

This time, however, her hands would be bound by the shackles of loyalty. Or Greed. There would undoubtedly be consequences if she censored the most popular newspaper of the Wizarding World - from the public and her employers. 

Harry gave her a smile, fake and too bright, before turning back to his friends. For now, his plans were in motion and succeeding nicely. 

Overall, the student body reacted differently from the last time. There was no collective uprising against the tyranny brought about by Dolores Umbridge. No stickers were stuck to the staircases, no pranks pulled. He did not receive mail from strangers, declaring their belief in his story, nor did members of the faculty give him ridiculously generous amounts of points for nothing. Unfortunately, Harry was confronted with an unexpected amount of backlash from the DA in their following session. 

"So, Potter", Zacharia Smith spoke in a tone, which clearly indicated his intentions of causing trouble, "I thought the whole reason behind the DA was to defend ourselves against the Ministry. Why are you supporting it now?"

He knew exactly that the Hufflepuff did not join the group out of mistrust in the government but rather as a result of peer-pressure. About half of their group had chosen do attend the meetings regularly in order to socialise, or, like Smith, out of fear to be left out. A small percentage had entered out of the sole desire to enhance their Defense Against the Dark Arts knowledge and make up for any of their Professor's shortcomings. Hermione was the unofficial leader of said fraction. However, it was the last group, consisting mostly of Gryffindors, which worried him. They saw the DA as an act of rebellion against Umbridge and, by association, the ministry. 

If he was honest with himself, Harry had agreed to found the club in order to spite Umbridge. Though it had not been his main reason at the time, the added thrill of breaking the rules had elated him. Considering the consequences of his actions shame filled him at the memory of such thoughts. 

"Let me make this clear", he began, forcing authority into his voice and posture, "I said it once and I am willing to repeat it as many times as it takes: We are not an Army. Even if we call ourselves Dumbeldore's Army, this is a _student_ organisation created to ensure our education, despite certain teacher's inabilities. While we are breaking the rules, I do not encourage or endorse an uprising against the government, or anything else entailing violence. This is self-defence, this is educational. Not a revolution. Even if the name wasn't very well chosen. My political beliefs don't matter."

"So we're just supposed to accept whatever stupid decree Umbridge throws at us next?", Dean Thomas exclaimed, outraged. Others nodded, showing their agreement with the statement.

"No", Harry shook his head tiredly, "I don't have the right to tell you what you should and shouldn't do. If you want to do anything against the unfair rules and regulations of our resident devil, then that is your choice. What I am saying is that it could have grave repercussions for the headmaster, should any political statements be made by a student organisation called 'Dumbledore's Army'. It doesn't matter what we call ourselves, as long as this stays hidden. If you want to make it a public rebellion, choose a different group."

They understood, even though they were unhappy with his resolve. 

"Now, let's continue with the lesson", Harry nodded.

**[NOTHING TO LOSE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IYAWtJXU1To&list=PLCga9qvZ20HlSu1ui1wRtFiHEST3Rf_XA) \- Billy Talent**

[ **The Nodding Tiger** ](https://www.storyberries.com/chinese-fairy-tales-the-nodding-tiger/)


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